Borrowed Time
by Supaslim
Summary: Derek Cousland had his life wrenched away from him in the course of a single night, replaced by suffering, guilt, and the bite of sharp steel. All that is left for him is to do penance as a Grey Warden, and find his forgiveness. angst, hurt/comfort, etc
1. The Couslands of Highever

This one's a monster- big and scary. I know the first few chapters follow the game almost to the word, but that should lighten up once our hero is out in the world and there's less chatting and more fighting and gameplay options.

Currently rated T, but it may become M as the story progresses.

As one last note, I am following the human noble storyline, but I am not using the default name of "Aedan." One, because every single other story on this site about the male human noble calls him that and I'd like my story not to blend in with the crowd, and two, I just don't care much for the name. Instead, his name is Derek. Maybe I'll explain why later.

Please read and enjoy. And do review! It helps me improve as a writer, and it motivates me to _keep_ writing. Thank you.

oooooooooo

It was horns at the gate that woke him. Startled by the sudden noise, he jerked out of his slumber in time to hear a man outside calling out "The Arl of Amaranthine has arrived! Inform the teyrn!"

"Maker's breath," Derek murmured to himself, and rolled out of bed, pulling on a shirt and pantaloons hurriedly. As he did, he peered out the thick, rippled glass of his window to the courtyard below. Drill sergeants had the recruits hacking away at straw dummies with dulled swords, and to the side, archers were launching volleys of arrows at targets against the stone bulwark. Between them, platoons of soldiers already geared up and prepared for deployment were marching in and out of the yard. A procession of soldiers with the crest of Amaranthine approaching the keep marked the coming of Arl Rendon Howe, an old ally and friend of the family. It was late; noon at least. An unexplainable dread in the pit of his stomach had kept him turning all night long, and he only fell asleep a few hours before dawn. It seemed he had overslept because of it. A _lot_.

"Maker's _breath_!" he repeated more vehemently. His father was amassing an army for the King to fight the darkspawn that plagued the land, and his brother Fergus would be leading the force. Of course, his father had requested that Derek also help, and he was only too eager to assist. He was supposed to be there to greet the arl. And, of course, he was caught asleep in nothing but his smallclothes when the man arrived. Cursing his bad luck, he cinched his belt and began fastening his light leather armor over his underclothes with haste.

There was a knock at his door just as he was fastening the straps that held his twin daggers at his back. In came an elf servant, a light lunch of cold ham and bread on a tray in his hands. The elf placed them on a small table, and addressed Derek. "M'lord, Teyrn Cousland requests your presence in the hall, and the cook wished me to tell you that your hound is in the larder, again, ser. She's very angry, ser," he added as Derek wolfed down the pork. Mouth full, he turned to the servant.

"Of course she's angry. When _isn't _she angry?" The elf wrung his hands, unsure of what to say, but Derek swallowed, and spared him by continuing. "Thank you for letting me know, Merys. Tell her I'll retrieve him when I am able."

"Yes, ser," He said, and vacated the room. Derek left only moments later, jogging down stone corridors until he reached the great hall, where his father would doubtlessly be receiving the arl. He burst through the door to see his father standing next to a thin, graying man, laughing heartily. When he saw Derek approaching, he turned to him, still smiling from whatever joke the young noble had missed.

"I'm sorry pup; I didn't see you there. Howe, you remember my son?" He tuned to the other man, who fixed his beady eyed gaze on Derek.

"I see he's grown into a fine young man. Pleased to see you again, lad," the arl drawled. If he was pleased, he didn't show it. Derek nodded nonetheless. He had never found the man to be very pleasant company, but he _was_ friends with his father and a great war hero, and that garnered the son's respect.

"And you, Arl Howe."

"My daughter Delilah asked after you," Howe continued. "Perhaps I should bring her next time." Derek arched an eyebrow.

"To what end?" Delilah was fair enough, he supposed, but she was much younger than Derek, and he didn't care much for her rather opinionated attitude. More than that, she didn't care for him- in fact, she probably disliked Derek more than he disliked her. The teyrn's son doubted she had asked after him at all, unless she was fishing for news of a grave illness or hunting accident. No, Arl Howe and Teyrn Cousland had been trying to arrange a marriage between them for years, and both children were tiring of their efforts to bring them together.

"Ha! 'To what end', he says! And so glib. The boy's a whip, like his father," Howe exclaimed. Bryce Cousland smiled slightly, and waved a hand at his youngest.

"See what I contend with, Howe? You can't tell my fierce boy anything these days, Maker bless his heart." There was still laughter in the teyrn's voice, Aidan was surprised to note, what with Fergus leading his army into battle. Was his father really so confident that the darkspawn could be easily defeated? All the tales Derek had been told before now suggested the contrary, that great warriors fell like any other before them. He worried for his brother.

"As uniquely talented as his father, I'm sure," Howe stated.

"At any rate, pup," Teyrn Cousland said, growing more businesslike by the second, "I summoned you for a reason. While your brother and I are both away, I'm leaving you in charge of the castle."

Derek blinked, unsure of what to say. Part of him had hoped he would be taken along into battle, but he knew better than anyone that his skills weren't suited for army tactics. He was no sword toting, armor laden paladin like Fergus was; rather, he preferred some well oiled leather and a pair of daggers for quick, precise blows. He wasn't above 'cheating' either, as some of the Highever knights put it. A handful of dirt in your opponent's eyes certainly makes fighting them easier, and in Derek's book, it is more important to live to fight again than to fight 'clean' and die. Unfortunately, his methods required room, and when you're packed like sardines with hundreds of other warriors… No, it was better he was not on the front lines. However, was he really suited for a task like managing a castle? His skills were better put to use as a tactician or scout, surely.

"Are you certain?" he asked dubiously. "What's involved with such a task?"

"Only a token force is remaining here, and you must keep peace in the region. You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes?" So it was a tactical job, after all. Still, it sounded a lot like he was being put carefully on a shelf so as not to be harmed. Derek started to protest, but his father cut him off. "There's also someone you must meet. Please-" Bryce Cousland addressed a guard standing by the far wall."-show Duncan in."

A moment later, the party was joined by an aging man in armor not dissimilar to Derek's, though clearly of higher quality. Two blades were fastened to his back, and the Teyrn's son wondered vaguely if their fighting methods might be similar. He had the air of a seasoned veteran, but it was clear that he still had the strength to fight- and win- many more battles to come.

"It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland," the stranger said. His voice was deep and sure; a voice men rallied to and followed to war. Was this man a general, a commander? He was no noble; Derek would have recognized him from the functions his father had made him attend. Arl Howe, however, seemed to know of the man. He was visibly flustered.

"Your Lordship, you didn't mention that a Grey Warden would be present," he whined. So the man was a Grey Warden! Derek had only ever heard of them, and mostly in old tales dating back to the third Blight. Never had he met a Warden before, but then again, they had also been banished from Ferelden until he was a toddler. There weren't many around to be seen. Perhaps that explained the alarm Derek heard in Howe's voice and saw etched into his face. Howe had always been wary of foreigners, and when he was younger, Wardens were called traitors to the throne.

"Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?" asked Teyrn Cousland, eyes slightly narrowed.

"Of course not," Howe was quick to reply, "but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am… at a _disadvantage_."

"We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that's true. Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Grey Wardens are, I hope?"

"They're an order of great warriors," Derek replied simply, hoping to hear more about the battle plans rather than discuss ancient history.

"They are the heroes of legend, who ended the Blights and saved us all," his father elaborated, as if trying to highlight the importance of this guest to his son. "Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south. I believe he's got his eye on Ser Gilmore," the teyrn added, almost as an aside. Derek and Ser Gilmore were friendly, and sparred together often.

"If I might be so bold," Duncan interjected, stepping towards Derek and appraising him, "I would suggest that your son is also an excellent candidate." This surprised the young noble. Him, a Grey Warden? He couldn't imagine it, nor did he particularly want it. Yet, a great deal of honor was attached to the position, and he would certainly never come to much as the _younger_ son of the teyrn. The teyrn himself seemed unhappy with the concept.

"Honor though that might be, this is one of my sons we're talking about," said he as he moved in between his son and the Warden.

"Is there a reason I shouldn't join them?" Derek asked, more out of curiosity than interest. The arl chose that moment to speak up again.

"You _did_ just finish saying that Grey Wardens are heroes, old friend."

"I've not so many children that I'll gladly see them all off to battle." _So the truth comes out_, Derek thought to himself._ That'll be why I'm to stay at the castle, then._ He was both annoyed and touched. He could manage himself in a fight, he wasn't some Orlesian maid. Then again, his father wanted to keep him safe. "Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription…?" added the Teyrn as an unpleasant afterthought.

"Have no fear," Duncan relied, holding up a hand as if to brush away the tension in the air. "While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I've no intention of forcing the issue." This seemed to appease the Teyrn, who addressed his son once again.

"Pup, can you ensure that Duncan's requests are seen to while I'm gone?"

"Don't strain my abilities or anything."

"And don't strain my patience," Bryce snapped back. "In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me." Derek arched his eyebrows. There were servants and soldiers everywhere that could carry that message.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" His father, the arl, and the Warden all stared at him.

"We must discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lad and do as I've asked. We'll talk soon."

Of course, just as things were getting interesting. _It figures_, Derek thought bitterly. _I wish he would include me in more. Must I always be left in the dark? _Before he left, though, he paused to talk to the Arl.

"Yes?" The man asked impatiently when he saw his friend's son still standing before him.

"I just want to wish you well, Arl Howe."

"I… thank you. That is… quite unnecessary." Derek frowned. Something felt amiss, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Shrugging the feeling away, he nodded to the arl and the Warden, and began heading towards Fergus' family's quarters. Behind him, he heard discussion of strategies begin, and wished he could join them instead. Still, he wanted to see his brother before he rode off with the army. Plus, there was still the matter of his Mabari in the kitchen to deal with.

Remembering that, he paused, and turned around, opting to take the long route and pick up the hound along the way. He strode quickly down the cobbled path, following the distance sounds of his baying war hound and the shrieking cook. As he neared the kitchen, though, a familiar knight came up to him, begging his attention. It was Ser Gilmore; a knight of good standing and skill, and a close friend of Derek's. The young knight had lived at the castle for several years, and he and Derek had grown up together. Still, though, Ser Gilmore insisted on the formalities, and refused to call him by name, opting instead for "My Lord." It had always irked Aidan. Such protocol had always seemed like a waste of energy to him.

"There you are!" exclaimed Gilmore, with the air of one who had searched the entire castle fruitlessly for him. He probably had. "Your mother told me the teyrn had summoned you, so I didn't want to interrupt."

"Good thing, too, considering Father's company," admitted Derek, adjusting one shoulder pad. He had been in such a rush this morning, they were somewhat ill-fitted at the moment.

"Yes, I saw the arl arrive," Ser Gilmore replied. He paused when Nan gave out a particularly loud shriek. "I fear your hound has the kitchens in uproar once again. Nan is threatening to leave." There was a hint of a smile on his face, but _only_ a hint. He took his job very seriously.

"Oh, Nan is just blowing off steam. She's always been like that."

"Your mother disagrees. She insists you collect your dog, and quickly. You know these mabari hounds. The listen only to their master; anyone else risks having an arm bitten off."

"He knows better than to hurt anyone." _I think_.

"I'm not willing to test that," Ser Gilmore said solemnly. As an afterthought, he added "You're quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know. Smart enough not to talk, my father used to say. Of course, that means he's easily bored. Nan swears he confounds her just to amuse himself.

_Ah, that I don't doubt. Particularly since I may have occasionally encouraged his mischief,_ Derek mused, a bit sheepish but mostly amused.

"At any rate, your mother would have me accompany you until the matter is settled. Shall we?"

"Where _is_ my mother, exactly?"

"She was entertaining Lady Landra and her son when I left her. Perhaps in the atrium?" There was a half second's silence before Ser Gilmore spoke again, uncharacteristically nervous. He was even fidgeting a bit, shifting his weight and wringing one hand in the other. "Err… before we go, my lord, might I beg a question? I've heard from several people that a Grey Warden is here. Is that true?" The teyrn's son smirked.

"You sound quite excited." More excited than ever. More so even than when he was infatuated with one of his mother's ladies-in-waiting.

"Awed, more like. The reputation of the Grey Wardens as mythical warriors is unsurpassed." The noble, seeing his enthusiasm, threw him a bone.

"His name is Duncan. I met him." This had Ser Gilmore hooked.

"Then… is it also true this Grey Warden was asking after me?" Maker, he was like a little boy on Feastday! A grin grew on Derek's face.

"I'm not certain. Maybe," he teased.

"Maybe? Have mercy! Is he asking after me or not?" The question was so heartfelt, Derek could not help but give in. He threw up his hands and laughed.

"Just joking, just joking! Yes, he wants to test you."

"Maker's _breath_! Are you certain? Can you imagine? Me? A Grey Warden!" He _could_ imagine, actually, more than he could imagine himself in that position. "It would be everything I've _dreamed_ of! Of course, I shouldn't get ahead of myself. Pardon my outburst." Derek laughed again as his friend's face flushed red.

"Shall we go collect Byron, then?"

"Yes, M'lord!"

It was only a short walk to the kitchen. When they opened the door, they saw Nan standing at the larder door, with a pair of anxious elves at her flanks. Inside the larder, Derek could hear his dog barking ceaselessly, and the occasional crash of dishes shattering.

"Get that bloody mutt out of the larder!" Nan barked at the servants. They both shrunk away from her.

"But mistress!" Pled the elven woman, Sylthine, "It won't let us near!"

"If I can't get into that larder, I'll skin both of you useless elves, I swear it!" Upon hearing that, Ser Gilmore jumped into the conversation.

"Err… calm down, good woman. We've come to help…"

"You!" Gilmore jumped as she jabbed a finger at him. "And _you_! _Your_ bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!" Unable to stop himself, Derek argued back.

"He's not a mongrel! He's a pureblood mabari!" Beside the point, perhaps, but true all the same.

"A _blight_ wolf is what he is! How am I supposed to work like this?" Sylthine tried in vain to calm the cook down.

"Oh, dear. Mistress, calm down, please-"

"_That's it!_ I'll quit. Inform the teyrna. I'll go cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn." Derek rolled his eyes. He had heard this a thousand times by now. Although, the location did occasionally change. Sometimes she threatened to go to Amaranthine or Denerim instead.

"Nan, please!" cried Ser Gilmore. "We'll get the dog," he said soothingly. "Calm down."

"Just get him gone! I've enough to worry about with a castle full of hungry soldiers!" She turned on the elves, who were cowering behind her again. "You two! Stop standing there like idiots! Get out of the way!" Sylthine and Merys both leapt away from the door. Sighing, Derek pulled it open. Inside, Byron was sniffing around the floor, and barking at the corners of the room. Sacks of flour had been torn open, and shards of ceramic were strewn about.

"Aw, look at that mess," Gilmore said, peering at the carnage. "How did he even get in here?" It was a question Nan had been trying to answer for well over two years now, since the larder raids had begun. Byron whined, and looked up at his master. With purpose, he barked once more.

"Are you trying to tell me something, boy?" People had always said mabaris were smart, but only somebody who had one as a companion could truly attest to their impressive intelligence. Fergus occasionally teased him for it, but Derek was sure that Byron understood every word he said. And often, he responded in doggy fashion. In reply to the question, Byron was now bouncing in circles and barking even more insistently.

"It does seem like he's trying to tell you something," Ser Gilmore admitted, staring curiously at the massive hound. "Wait- do you hear that?" Something rustled in the far corner of the room. Byron growled, and pounced at the noise, flushing out a dozen huge rats. The rodents, panicking, charged at Derek and Gilmore, chewing at their boots. Derek punted one into the far wall, and crushed another underfoot. Gilmore had drawn a hunting knife from his belt and was stabbing at the small mob by his feet. Derek followed suit, drawing his daggers and hacking at the wild creatures. Byron gladly helped, as well, crushing them in his powerful jaws and clawing at them with his forefeet. Eventually, they all lay dead around the larder.

"Giant rats? It's like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell." Ser Gilmore seemed a little shocked by the experience. Neither of them had really been expecting a rat offensive. "Your hound must have chased them in through their holes. Looks like he wasn't raiding the larder after all," the knight remarked. Byron barked happily, licking the blood off of himself and his master.

"It certainly looks that way," affirmed the noble's son, patting his hound on the head.

"Those were rats from the Korcari Wilds. Best not to tell Nan," advised his sparring partner. "She's upset enough as it is. But seeing as you've got your mabari well in hand, I'll be on my way. I'm to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl's men." The knight bowed to Derek and left him in the larder with his dog. Byron seemed to be grinning, very proud of himself. Derek patted his shoulder, and led him out of the larder again. The cook stopped them before they could get very far, and waved a ladle at them threateningly.

"There he is, as brazen as you please, licking his chops after helping himself to the roast, no doubt!" This made Derek scoff, and instinctively stand up for Byron, against Gilmore's advice.

"Actually, he was defending your larder from rats. Big ones." There. That ought to do it.

"W-what? Rats? Not the large grey ones?" whimpered Merys. "They'll rip you to shreds, they will!"

"See? Now you've gone and scared the servants! I expect those filthy things are dead." Cook narrowed her eyes, as if she would whip them both if they weren't.

"My faithful war hound made sure it's safe," Derek continued, hamming it up.

"Hmph. I bet that dog led those rats into there to begin with." Byron whined and put on his big brown puppy eyes, but Derek wasn't sure Nan was far off the money. His hound could be downright cunning when he wanted to, and he wouldn't put it past him to lead rats into the larder to vex the cook. Clearly, Nan agreed, since she then said "Oh, don't even start with the sad eyes! I'm immune to your so-called charms." Byron whined again, louder, and wore the saddest face he could manage. Finally, the cook gave in with a sigh. "Here, then. Take these pork bits and don't say that Nan never gives you anything. Bloody dog." She looked up at Derek. "Thank you, my lord," she said tersely. "Now we can get back to work. That's right, you two, quit standing about!" The elves rushed to work, and Nan immediately began ordering them around again as if nothing had happened.

Derek shook his head, and left the kitchen. He still had to go talk to Fergus. As he rounded the corner, however, he was delayed again. The teyrna was standing in an alcove with a regal looking woman, as well as a younger woman and man. This must be Lady Landra. If Derek remembered correctly, she was the one who wouldn't leave him alone at one of his mother's social functions. She kept trying to tempt him 'somewhere more private.' She had been drunk on the wine, then, though. Perhaps she would be sober this time, and therefore more bearable. At any rate, she and his mother were blocking the way to Fergus' rooms. It seemed there was no avoiding it.

Somewhat self conscious that he was the only one in armor, Derek approached the well dressed quartet. His mother, Eleanor, beckoned him closer.

"Ah, here is my younger son. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchen is handled?"

"Nan's head exploded," Derek replied gravely, "and my hound ate the kitchen staff." Eleanor did not smile, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. Lady Landra arched her eyebrows, unsure what to make of the situation. The beautiful elf woman by her side put a hand to her mouth, and giggled softly. Derek smiled slightly at her. She was a pretty little thing.

"Well, at least one of us will have had a decent dinner. Perhaps your hound left something I can feed my guests. Darling, do you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren's wife?"

"I think we last met at your mother's spring salon," Lady Landra elaborated in an attempt to jog his memory.

"Of course. It is good to see you again, my lady." She smelled like a vineyard. He was pretty sure this was the same woman from before.

"You're too kind, dear boy. Didn't I spend half the salon shamelessly flirting with you?" Yes, this was she. And just as drunk as she had been then.

"Right in front of your family, too," the young red-headed man mentioned, embarrassed.

"You remember my son, Dairren? He's riding with your father tomorrow." Derek looked back at the man. Yes, he was vaguely familiar. An accomplished archer, if he remembered right. Decent with a sword, too, but if he recalled right, he had beaten him quite easily in a sparring match once upon a time.

"It's good to see you again, my lord."

"And you, Dairren." Derek's eyes slid back to the young woman with the yellow hair. She blushed slightly and averted her gaze.

"And this," Lady Landra said, noticing his interest, "is my lady-in-waiting, Iona. Do say something, dear."

"It is a great honor, my lord. I have heard many wonderful things about you." Iona's blush deepened, and Lady Landra let out a tinkling, feminine laugh.

"Don't look now, Eleanor, but I believe the girl has a crush on your lad."

"Lady Landra!" cried Iona, utterly embarrassed. Eleanor came to her rescue, seeing her distress.

"Hush, Landra. You'll turn the poor thing scarlet."

"Perhaps we should speak alone sometime, Iona?" Derek suggested, genuinely interested, and at that, Iona _did_ turn scarlet.

"As it… pleases you, my lord." Eleanor gave her son an odd look, as if to ask what he was playing at, and Landra shot him one much more knowing and entertained.

"I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear," Landra said. "Dairren, I will see you and Iona at supper."

"Perhaps we'll retire to the study for now." Dairren seemed to speak for both himself and Iona. Perhaps they were an item? That would explain why Lady Landra seemed to throw Iona at him. Of course she wouldn't want her noble son wedding a commoner, or even worse, having an affair with one. And an elf, at that! He had no such qualms, though. Perhaps he would hunt her down, later, and see if she didn't want some company tonight…

"Good evening, your Lordship," Landra said to Derek, curtsying slightly and excusing herself, leaving just the teyrna and her son.

"You should say goodbye to Fergus while you have the chance." As she said it, the pleasure of meeting Iona wore off, and was replaced by the gnawing worry of before.

"I have a bad feeling about all of this," he admitted to his mother. She glanced around them, and replied.

"As do I. Your father and brother are marching off to fight Maker-knows-what. All the assurances in the world don't comfort me. But it wouldn't help for us to take up arms and follow. Fergus and your father have their duty, and we have ours." He nodded, still not placated. He wasn't comfortable with his father and brother at the front, battling an enemy with such a reputation. Instead of dwelling on it, he changed the subject.

"Did you know there's a Grey Warden here?"

"Yes, your father mentioned that. You haven't gotten it into your head that you want to be recruited?" He thought of his brother, and Ser Gilmore, and then of himself. He just didn't feel he would be the type, and he didn't really care for the idea of dedicating himself to war in the first place.

"Definitely not."

"Keep it that way. You've enough to do here at the castle without chasing darkspawn."

"Are you staying at the castle?"

"For a few days. Then I'll travel with Lady Landra to her estate and keep her company for a time." She didn't seem to savor the idea. "Your father thinks my presence here might undermine your authority." Derek wasn't sure if he should take it as a compliment from his father or not. Did his father want to give him his opportunity at leadership unimpeded? Or was he trying to say that the teyrna would always command more respect than he would, trying or not?

Regardless, he didn't like the idea of his mother traveling while the threat of darkspawn attacks on the road were very real. Her guard could manage the odd bandit, but a throng of evil, corrupted creatures dead set on killing them all?

"I don't think you should go," he finally told her.

"Don't worry, my dear. It won't be long." It wasn't what he wanted to hear, and she knew it, but neither pushed the matter further.

"I should go. I need to talk to Fergus." Derek began to head up the path, but Eleanor touched him arm to stop him.

"I love you, my darling boy. You know that, don't you?" Derek frowned, confused.

"What brought this on?"

"You've grown up so fast. And now Bryce is leaving you in charge of the castle..." They were quiet for a moment, and the teyrna stared down at her clasped hands. "I suppose there's no point in dwelling on it. Go do what you must, then. I will see you soon." He smiled at his mother reassuringly and nodded, then trotted up the path towards the living quarters. He was running dreadfully late at this point, he knew, but there was nothing to be done about it.

A few minutes later, he arrived in his and his brother's wing of the living quarters. He heard Fergus' booming laughter in his room, and entered. Inside, Fergus seemed to be saying his farewells to his wife Oriana and son, Oren. Oren, curious as ever, was asking him about the war.

"Will you bring me back a sward?" he asked, eyes huge. Derek leaned against the doorframe and chuckled to himself. His nephew had recently begun expanding his vocabulary, but words often got messed up along the way. It always proved entertaining. Fergus seemed to be of the same mind, since he laughed again, and ruffled his son's hair.

"That's 'sword,' Oren. And I'll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. I'll be back before you know it." Oriana frowned at his confidence.

"I wish victory was indeed so certain. My heart is… disquiet." So his sister-in-law felt it too. It seemed everybody but Bryce and Fergus themselves felt it, a tension in the air that was all but tangible.

"Don't frighten the boy, love. I speak the truth." Fergus looked up from his son, and saw Derek perched in the doorway. "And here's my little brother to see me off. Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well." He tenderly wiped a tear from his wife's cheek with his calloused thumb.

"Should I wait outside?" The younger brother asked. Fergus shook his head.

"Stay. I'd like to say farewell." Derek walked further into the room.

"Do you really think the war will be over quickly?" he asked, brows knitted together.

"Word from the south is that the battles have gone well. There's no evidence that this is a true Blight- just a large raid." Oriana placed a slender hand on her husband's chest.

"Could that be true?"

"I'll see for myself soon enough," Fergus reassured her. "Pray for me, love, and I'll be back within a month or two."

"You'll be missed, Brother," Derek told him, and Fergus chuckled.

"If it's any consolation, I'm sure I'll freeze in the southern rain and be completely jealous of you up here, warm and safe."

"I'm positively _thrilled_ that you will be so miserable, husband," Oriana stated dryly, clearly unamused.

"There is something else. I bring a message: Father wants you to leave without him."

"Then the arl's men _are_ delayed. You'd think his men are all walking backwards." Delayed? This is the first Derek had heard of it. He had assumed they would be arriving shortly after the arl. Blast them all! Nobody told him anything! "Well, I'd better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time!" Fergus kissed his wife, drew back, and seemingly on second thought kissed her again. Then he squatted down and embraced his only son in a bear hug, the boy squirming and begging to be let go, but laughing all the same. At long last he released the boy, and clapped Derek on the shoulder in a silent 'goodbye.' "Off we go, then. I'll see you soon, my love."

"I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave?" The brothers spun to look at the door, where their parents stood. Together they joined the small gathering, and Eleanor hugged her oldest tightly.

"Be well, my son. I will pray for your safety every day you are gone."

"A good shield would be more useful," Derek muttered, garnering dark looks from both Eleanor and Oriana. They were both very faithful to the Maker, but Derek had always theorized that the Maker would help those that helped themselves. Besides, weren't the Chantry folk always talking about how the Maker had left this world? What good was it to pray at all, if that was true? Still… It couldn't hurt.

"The Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers and bring them safely back to us," Oriana said, leading the prayer.

"And bring us some ale and wenches while you're at it," Fergus added gaily. Oriana glared daggers at him. "Err, for the men, of course."

"Fergus! You would say this in front of your mother?" Oriana gestured violently at Eleanor, who only scowled briefly. She was used to it, by now, living with three men of a similar humor.

"What's a wench?" Little Oren chirped from somewhere below them. "Is that what you pull on to get the bucket out of the well?"

"A wench," the teyrn told him, "is a woman that pours the ale in a tavern, Oren. Or a woman who drinks a lot of ale," he continued, winking. Eleanor slapped her husband's arm.

"Bryce! Maker's breath, I swear it's like living with a pack of small boys." This roused roaring laughter in all of the men, and only deepened the women's scowls.

"I'll miss you, Mother dear," Fergus told Eleanor when he had caught his breath. "You'll take care of her, Brother, won't you?"

"Mother can handle herself. Always has," replied Derek, crossing his arms and smiling. Fergus nodded with mock sincerity.

"It's true. They should be sending her, not me. She would scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads."

"Well, I'm glad you find this so funny," huffed the teyrna. Bryce grinned, and pulled her close.

"Enough, enough. Pup, you'll want to get an early night. You've much to do tomorrow." The younger son was about to speak when Oren beat him to it.

"Mama says you're going to be watching over us while papa is gone. Is that true, Uncle?" He winced at the title.

"I _wish_ you wouldn't call me that."

"But you're my uncle! What else could I call you, silly?" Oriana laughed for the first time since Derek had entered the room.

"Your uncle no doubt thinks it makes him sound too old, Oren." It was true. Derek was nearly a decade younger than Fergus was, and he had only been a young teen when Oren was born. Being called 'Uncle' had never agreed with him.

"But he _is_ old!" Oren was protesting. "But not as old as _you_, mama." Oriana turned to her husband, who was smiling into his hand, trying not to look so amused.

"This is your influence, Fergus."

"What? I didn't say anything."

"Are you going to teach me to use a sword, Uncle? Then I can fight evil, too!" Oren began bouncing around, wielding an invisible sword and striking at intangible foes. "Take that, dire bunny!" he cried out, pretending to stab Byron, who played along and rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Derek laughed. Dire bunny? "All darkspawn fear my sword of truthiness!"

"Truthiness?" Derek asked his brother. Oriana smiled, and shrugged.

"We're teaching him about honesty." Fergus knelt down at his son's level.

"Don't worry, son. You'll get to see a sword up close real soon, I promise."

"You should be on your way, pup. Long day ahead, tomorrow," Bryce prompted his youngest again.

"Getting sent to bed early, are we?" Fergus asked, grinning. _And with no dinner, either,_ Derek mused.

"Have fun on the long march. In the cold." That gave the older brother pause.

"Hmm. A warm bed doesn't sound so bad now, come to think of it. At any rate, I'll miss you. Take care of everyone, and be here when I get back."

"Consider it done," Derek promised, and crossed the hall to his own room. He may have only arisen an hour or two ago, but he _could_ use a nap, at the very least. He had gotten very little sleep. He closed his door and began pulling off the leather plates of his armor. Byron lied down at the foot of his bed. And, as it had last night, an unnameable dread began to creep into Derek's heart.

"I really have a bad feeling about this, boy," he addressed the war hound. Byron whined from where he lay, as if he agreed. The noble carefully placed his armor at the ready on a trunk in his room, and began to head to bed. As he pulled back the covers, though, he paused.

"Maker, if you _are_ there- please… watch over us."


	2. The First of the Last

There was shuffling outside of his door, that night. Byron, a lighter sleeper than his master, woke at the soft noise, and growled quietly. As the noise continued and drew closer, the growl crescendoed and became a bark. Derek's eyes snapped open as the barking continued. He crawled out of bed, feeling for his armor and pulling it on with even more speed than he had the last time he had risen.

"What's wrong, boy? Is someone out there?" Byron's snarls grew more ferocious, and then the door was flung open. A distraught servant stood there, shaking. His trousers were wet with what smelled like urine.

"My lord! Help me! The castle is under attack!" Without further warning, the man fell forward, an arrow protruding from the center of his back. Derek, eyes wide, snatched his daggers from his trunk and charged from the room, leaping over the servant's body. An archer and two swordsman were standing in the central room. Derek rushed the swordsmen, pitching a handful of dust into the eyes of one and delivering a swift kick to other's groin. Byron had tackled the archer, tearing at his arms and throat with his teeth, shredding the muscle. In less than ten seconds, his shrieks had quieted and the hound dashed to his master's side, attacking the more heavily armed swordsmen.

The blinded one slammed his shield into Derek's face, knocking him back, but Derek recovered quickly and jabbed his left-hand blade past the shield and between his ribs, killing him. As that soldier crumpled, he freed his blade and turned on the other, who was trying to stab Byron rather unsuccessfully. For such a large dog, he was fast, and was only nicked by most of the attacks. Between blows, he would snap at the man's legs. Distracted as he was, the soldier did not notice Derek behind him until the dagger was plunged through the base of his neck.

There were footsteps rapidly approaching in the hall, and Derek whirled around to face the attacker. To his surprise and relief, it was his mother who came flying through the doorway, not more soldiers. Teyrna Eleanor was in armor, and had her longbow on her back. She seemed deeply unsettled, but otherwise unharmed. The horror on her face reflected the horror in his heart.

"Darling! I heard the fighting outside and I feared the worst! Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. What's going on?"

"A scream woke me up. There were men in the hall, so I barred the door." She paused, gathering her wits and scanning her son again, to reassure that he was okay. "Did you see their shields? Those are Howe's men! Why would they attack us?" She asked him in desperation. Derek shook his head, completely dumbfounded.

"I- I don't know, Mother, but we need to get out of here." That much was certain. If there were enemy soldiers this far into the castle, then the rest of it was almost surely lost. But, they could still escape if he and his parents carved a path to the servant's entrance and Oriana and Oren followed. But- why would Howe do this? Wasn't he the teyrn's friend? Weren't they allies? It made no sense!

"Have you seen your father? He never came to bed!" Eleanor continued fretfully. The dread squeezed Derek's heart painfully.

"Maybe he stayed up with Arl Howe," he said, horrified by the implications. His father- he could be…

"We must find him!" the teyrna cried, snatching her son by the wrist and squeezing it painfully tight.

"We should check on Oriana and Oren, as well," Derek asserted, trepidation bubbling up into his throat and making it hard to breath. Eleanor froze, the blood draining from her face.

"Andraste's mercy! What if the soldiers went into your brother's room first?" Derek exhaled, a sound of desperation and fear. Anything but that. Anything. "Let's check on them! Quickly! Then we'll look for Bryce downstairs!" She released his wrist, and he sprinted back towards Fergus' room. The door was open a crack. Afraid of what he might see inside, he pushed it slowly open further, eyes fixed on a knot in the wood of the door.

Eleanor's screams gave him the answer he feared. "No! My little Oren! What manner of fiend slaughters innocents?" She plunged into the room, falling to her knees next to the lifeless ragdoll bodies of his brother's wife and child. What appeared to be intestines were spilled out beside them, but he couldn't be sure if it was the mother's or the son's. Oriana's arms were shredded, as if she had died shielding her child. Eleanor sobbed, hugging her dead grandson to her. His blood covered her arms and face. The smell of copper and feces hit Derek like a wave, then, and he turned away from the sight, the bile rising in his throat, and tears glistening in his eyes.

"Why would they do this?" He asked, expecting no answer. "_How_ could they do this?" The idea of killing innocents, butchering children and mothers as they cowered in their homes, filling the air with the scent of their spilled blood-

Unable to hold back any longer, Derek braced himself against the doorframe, retching in spite of himself. It wasn't only the gruesome sight, but the _smell_, the god-awful _smell_ of pain and death. Eleanor shakily pulled herself to her feet, blood covering her front.

"Howe is not even taking hostages! He means to kill us all! Oh, poor Fergus," she murmured, tears streaming down her face. "Let's go. I don't want to see this!" She turned, and rested a hand on Derek's back while he wiped his mouth. He jumped at the contact, but then leaned into it, suddenly glad for the small comforts in this twisted world. The dread had clawed its way into his brain, making his whole head ache. He wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, and to wake up in the morning to find it was but a dream. To wake up and have all of the pain gone. To never smell blood again.

He was dazed as they traveled down the hall. His mother opened the door to one of the guest rooms and cried out again.

"Dear _Landra_! I'm...I'm so sorry. _If she hadn't come_ to me..._if she hadn't_ been _here__..._" But her wailing went unnoticed. Oriana and Oren were dead. Bryce was missing. The castle was overrun, and could not be held. The world was already collapsing for Derek, and he was deafened by the noise. Or perhaps it was the rush of blood in his ears, or the screaming in the distance…

"We must find your father," Eleanor insisted weepily, and led Derek on. He followed like a sleepwalker; eyes unfocused and taking in nothing, feet stumbling over themselves. She grabbed him by the arm again when they were outside the knights' barracks, forcing his attention.

"Can you hear the fighting? Howe's men must be everywhere."

"I don't want you in danger, Mother," Derek said at long last. No, he had lost too much.

"My only grandchild is a ravaged corpse. What do I care about danger?" Derek flinched and looked away. Eleanor looked down the stone path. "The front gates. That's where your father must be."

"What if Father isn't there?" _What if Father is dead?_

"Listen, darling, we haven't much time." The teyrna placed one hand on her son's cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze. "If we can't find your father, you _must_ get out of here alive. Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line ends here. If Howe's men are inside, they must control the castle. We must use the servant's entry in the larder to escape. Do you hear me?"

"I- I hear you."

"Then let us be swift." Together they ran down the path, Byron trailing behind them. As they approached the turn in the path, a servant appeared, screaming. He stumbled and nearly fell, but caught himself in time.

"The castle has fallen!" He screamed at them, eyes bulging. "I'm getting out of here!"

"Wait! What's happening?" Derek pled, but it was too late. The servant turned, and screamed again.

"Here they come! They're right behind me!" On cue, a small wave of soldiers bearing shields with the bear crest of Amaranthine rounded the corner and slew him. Hatred gurgling inside him, Derek charged thoughtlessly into the fight, hacking and slashing like the best berserker. His mabari was right alongside him, felling as many soldiers as Derek was. They were covered by a constant stream of arrows from his mother's bow, catching soldiers in the throat and the armpits, where the armor doesn't cover. Between them, they made short work of the foes, and with no major injuries.

"We're getting close to the treasury," Eleanor said suddenly. "The Cousland family blade lies inside."

Derek had, of course, heard of this blade, but he had only ever seen it during ceremonies, sheathed on his father's belt. It was old; dating back four hundred years, and still as sharp as the day it was forged. There were _legends _of the blade, and it represented all that the Cousland family was.

"Here, darling, take my key. That blade cannot fall into Howe's hands; it should sever his treacherous head!" As her son took the key, Eleanor spotted more soldiers in the near distance. "Go get the sword! I'll hold them off!" Derek nodded, and hurried to unlock the outer treasury doors. Inside, the guards lay dead in pools of their own blood. The noble looked away from the ghastly sight, and unlocked the inner door. On the far wall was the family chest. He hurried to it, unlocked it, and pulled the lid up. Inside was the sword, glittering and begging to be used against these traitors. Wielding it in his right hand, he unsheathed his left dagger. He would bring death to those who dared oppose him, and he would make it agonizing for what they had already done. It wouldn't be hard- aim for lungs instead of the heart, sever muscle instead of artery or nerve… They would suffer, and he would laugh. A cold fire lit his eyes, and he burst from the treasury, rejoining the fray. He danced among the moving bodies like a ghost, stabbing here and slicing there, felling the enemies but failing to mortally wound them. He let Byron clean up those in his wake. Eleanor as well was growing angry, in lieu of her fear. She roared at Howe's men, uttered threats and promises of pain.

Sooner rather than later, the onslaught was beaten down. Corpses and dying men were strewn on the cobbles. Derek, immune to their suffering, pressed on. They were nearly at the gate, they needed only to pass through the hall.

Reaching the door, Derek opened it to see Ser Gilmore leading an attack on a band of Howe's men. Gladly he pitched in, hacking the head off of one soldier with the family sword and stabbing the next man in the back with his dagger. Seeing an archer aiming his deadly arrows at Eleanor, and with his dagger still firmly lodged in the armor, ligament, and bone of the fallen soldier, he used his free hand to seize a flowerpot off of a nearby table and fling it at the man. The heavy ceramic hit dead-on, shattering against the bow and splintering the wood. The archer, realizing he had no remaining defense, panicked and tried to run, but Byron was faster. The dog leapt onto him and forced him to the ground, clamping down on his neck and shaking his mighty head until the man's spine snapped.

As the last man fell, Ser Gilmore ran up to Derek, screaming for his men to bar the gate and buy them time. Then he turned to the teyrna and her son.

"Your Ladyship! My lord! You're both alive! I was certain Howe's men had gotten through!"

"Have you seen my father?" Derek asked hurriedly, eying the gates. Howe's men seemed to have a battering ram, and they were rhythmically assaulting the door. Each blow made the wood groan and crackle. He didn't trust it to hold much longer.

"He was looking for you two," Ser Gilmore told them, also watching the door. "He told us to hold the hall as long as possible. When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates. But they won't keep Howe's men out long! If you've another way out of the castle, use it quickly!" Derek bit his lip, glancing between the door, his distraught mother, and his childhood friend.

"Come with us," he urged, but Ser Gilmore was already shaking his head.

"If I do that, you won't make it out before the gates fall. Please! Go while you still have the chance! When I last saw the teyrn, he'd been badly wounded. I urged him not to go, but he was determined to find you. He went towards the kitchen. I believe he thought to find you at the servant's exit in the larder."

"Bless you, Ser Gilmore," Eleanor said earnestly, tears again glistening in her eyes. "Maker watch over you!" Ser Gilmore's eyes dropped. He knew his fate, and had accepted it.

"Maker watch over us all."

Reluctantly, Derek left his old friend, who went to join the other knights at the gate, holding it closed. He watched for a second, but at Eleanor's urging, moved on. They hurtled through the other door of the hall, striking down the soldiers that lurked on the other side. From here, it was a straight run to the kitchen. Side by side they dashed along, Byron taking the lead when a soldier emerged from a servants' room, blood on his sword. The dog took a powerful leap and slammed into the man with all of his weight, throwing him to the ground. He tore his throat out before his master could even reach them. When the humans had caught up, they made a beeline for the larder, trying to keep their eyes from lingering on the corpses of Nan and Sylthine in the kitchen. But at last, they had reached the larder! Teyrn Cousland would be waiting for them on the other side, and they would escape together under cover of night-

Eleanor opened the door, and glanced around for her husband. He was not immediately visible, but then they heard him, calling weakly from the corner of the room.

"Maker's blood, what's happening? You're bleeding!" Eleanor wept. The teyrn was wounded several times over, his abdomen torn open and the bone of his leg showing through a deep gash. Both his wife and son fell at his side, devastated.

"Howe's men… found me first," Bryce gurgled, pinkish saliva bubbling on his lips. "Almost… did me in right there." He coughed, and a veritable river of blood poured from his mouth, splattering on the stone floor. Aeden winced and drew back slightly, fists clenched.

"I'll _kill_ Howe for what he's done!" he swore vehemently as he watched his father suffer.

"He can't… get away with this! The king- the king will…" The arm that was propping him up gave out, and he slid to the stone floor with a groan of agony. The teyrna cradled his head, bereaved.

"Bryce! We must get you out of here!"

"I- I won't survive the standing, I think," He told her through the haze of his pain.

"Then we'll simply have to drag you out," Derek said. He could not bear to see his father die, as well. Not after everything else had been taken so violently from him.

"Only… Only if you're willing to leave pieces of me behind, pup." Bryce smiled weakly, and Derek's heart shattered.

"Bryce! This is no time for jokes! Once Howe's men break though the gate, they will find us! We must go!" She was delicately but hurriedly probing his wounds, evaluating their severity.

"Someone… must reach Fergus…. Tell him what has happened…"

"You can tell him yourself, Father," insisted Derek. It felt like his chest was going to implode.

"I… wish I could…" He groaned again, and curled upon himself slightly.

"Bryce, no! The servants' passage is right here! We can flee together, find you healing magic!"

"The castle is surrounded… I cannot make it."

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," a deep voice agreed from the larder doorway. Derek looked over his shoulder to see the Grey Warden standing there. The man approached them, and stood over the noble family. "Howe's men have not yet discovered this exit, but they will surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult."

"You are Duncan, then? The Grey Warden?" Eleanor asked briskly, holding her husband's head protectively. Duncan bowed slightly to her.

"Yes, your Ladyship. The teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner."

"My younger son helped me get here, Maker be praised." Aeden could not see the backlit Warden's eyes, but he felt his cool gaze slide over him.

"I am not surprised."

"Are you going to help us, Duncan?" asked the son, voice wavering slightly. There was a sudden splintering sound in the distance, and the roar of a battle renewed. Eleanor regarded them all with haunted eyes.

"Whatever is to be done now, it must be quick! They are coming!"

"Duncan," Bryce wheezed. "You are under no obligation to me, but I beg you… take my wife and son to safety!"

"I will, your Lordship. But I musk ask for something in return."

"Anything!" There was the desperation. Derek had never suspected he would quickly know it well, and never would he have expected to hear it in his father's voice.

"What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in the world," Duncan explained quietly. "I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands that I leave with one."

"I... I understand."

"What?" Derek barked, taken aback by the sudden decision. "No! I won't agree to any such thing!"

"Then what else?" the father asked his son, plaintive. "How will you survive?"

"I will take the teyrna and your son to Ostagar to tell Fergus and the king what happened. Then, your son joins the Grey Wardens."

Resigned, Bryce bowed his head, the energy gone from him. "So long as justice comes to Howe… I agree." Duncan turned to Derek, then.

"Then I offer you a place within the Grey Wardens. Fight with us."

"But- what if Fergus is dead?"

"We will inform the king, and he will punish Howe. I am sorry, but a Grey Warden's duties take precedence even over vengeance."

"Howe thinks he'll use the chaos to… advance himself. Make him wrong, pup. See that justice is done! Our family… always does our duty first. The darkspawn must be defeated. You must go. For your own sake, and for Ferelden's."

"I… I will, Father. For you."

"We must leave quickly, then," Duncan said, glancing back into the kitchen.

"Bryce, are you… sure?" Eleanor asked. He responded with the last of his vigor.

"Our son will not die of Howe's treachery. He will live, and make his mark on the world." The teyrna smiled bleakly at her son.

"Darling, go with Duncan. You have a better chance to escape without me."

"Eleanor!" Bryce objected.

"Hush, Bryce. I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won't abandon you."

"We can find another way," blathered Derek, "We can fight!" Eleanor stared at him sharply.

"So we _all_ die? No. Your place is with the Grey Wardens. Mine is with your father. At his side, to death and beyond."

"I'm… so sorry it's come to this, my love," Bryce uttered. The pool of blood beneath him was growing. Eleanor hugged him.

"We had a good life, and did all we could. It's up to our children, now…" Bryce looked up at his son one last time.

"Then… go, pup. Warn your brother. And know that I love you both. You do us proud…" A of rush of armored footsteps could be heard approaching the kitchen, alarming those who hid inside.

"They've broken through the gates. We must go now!" Duncan seized Derek by the shoulder and hauled him bodily to the exit, pushing him through.

"Goodbye, darling…" Eleanor said to his back. Behind him, the noble heard his mother nocking an arrow, and drawing it back to her cheek, awaiting the first of the last. But then the door was shut, and Duncan was pushing him into the chilly night air, rushing him across the farmland and into the forest before they could be caught. Byron ran at their side, having slid out the door with them. They ran until they couldn't anymore, and when they stopped, it was minutes before they caught their breath. Derek looked back through the trees, and saw nothing but darkness. The glow of the moon pierced the canopy and lit the small clearing they had stopped in. They had escaped Howe's men… And Derek had lost everything.

They sat there in silence for quite some time. At some point Duncan built a small fire, but Derek didn't move from the spot he sat in. He was cold, but at the same time, he was numb. His world had just fallen away from him. He was nothing, and he had nothing. Then, Duncan disappeared for a time, and reappeared, not a word spoken. He had a rabbit in hand that he went on to skin and gut neatly, throwing the cast off into the flames. The noble sat absently nearby, watching but not seeing as Duncan put a spit through the creature and held it over the fire, letting the flame lick the lean meat. When it was thoroughly cooked, he pulled it out of the flames to let it cool, and then tore a hind leg from the coney. The older man rose from where he had been crouching, and approached Derek. Byron growled a warning, but did not act as the Warden took the younger man's hand and placed the food in it.

"Eat," he said simply. Derek looked at the leg, contemplated eating it. Remembered his young nephew, slaughtered and disemboweled like the rabbit had been, and gagged. Without a moment's delay, he passed the meat to his hound, who gladly made short work of it, all while Duncan watched from his fire.

"Starving yourself won't help," he said. Derek did not reply, only picked at a patch of blood dried onto his armor. Duncan sighed. Things were not going as he would have hoped, not by a long shot. "You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry. Not now."

"We march all day tomorrow, with no promise of food. You should eat while you can."

"I don't want to eat!" Derek finally roared. "Why must you torment me?"

"I am truly sorry for your loss, but there is nothing you can do about it now except to press onward." Derek did not acknowledge him, but the mabari indulged him with a high whine. Duncan sighed once again, and settled in by the fire. So this is how it would be.

oooooooooo

_You swore you would watch over us, Uncle. You swore it!_

Oren, twenty times larger than life, was standing above Derek, entrails hanging from his rent abdomen, and wrapping in tight loops around his uncle, trapping him. Oriana appeared behind him, and placed her bloody hands on her son's shoulders. One cheek was torn open, exposing teeth and gristle. She glared down at her brother-in-law with eyes fogged over by death.

_We're teaching him about honesty_, said she. _You said you would protect us, and you broke your word. You lied._

"I did not! I did not mean for this to happen!"

_I'm disappointed in you, pup,_ another voice rasped. Derek craned his head to see his parents behind him, or what was left of them. Bryce had been chopped into pieces, and those gory parts were gruesomely pinned to his mother's body with thousands of arrows. Their heads, joined at the neck, looked sternly down on him. _Fergus would have been able to protect us. He is strong, and brave. But you…_

_You let us down, darling. You let us die. You let _me_ die._

Oren looked up at his mother.

_May I use my sword, Mother?_ Oriana nodded, and from behind her back she drew the family sword, glowing coldly. Oren, excited, took it in his giant hands, wielding its weight like it was nothing. _All fear my sword of truthiness!_ The child grinned cruelly, and lifted the sword, point down, over his head. _Take that, dire bunny!_ There was a pause as the sword reached its peak, and then Oren forced the blade down, point aimed directly for his entangled uncle-

Rough hands shook Derek awake, and he reached automatically for the dagger s that lay on the ground next to him. He seized one and swung it upwards instinctively, but it was deflected with a ring of metal-on-metal. Duncan had a hunting knife in his hand, held up to block the awkward attack. Derek stared at him a moment, feeling foolish.

"We need to get moving. The sun is rising." Duncan left him, then, to pack up what gear he had managed to collect before escaping the castle. Derek shook his head blearily, and dragged himself to his feet. With a groan, he stretched, back crackling. He had fallen asleep sitting, and in his armor, too. His aching body, worn out from the battle in the castle, did not thank him for it. He looked around for Byron, and saw him urinating on a nearby bush. He had the right idea. Murmuring to Duncan where he was going, he ventured a few yards into the forest from the clearing, and undid enough armor to relieve himself. When he had finished his business, he returned to the clearing to see Duncan standing ready, waiting to leave.

"Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," replied Derek noncommittally.

"Then let's be off."

There was no running this time, only a brisk walk down a trail all but lost to the forest. It was silent between them for a time, but eventually small conversation evolved. Much of it was meaningless; they commented on the weather conditions and how this might affect their travels, they discussed dog breeds (particularly the use of mabaris at war, which seemed to enthrall Byron), and they pointed out various plants and animals, naming them and listing the various ointments and serums that could be made with them. They also discussed more serious things, though. The topic of darkspawn came up more than once. Duncan, a senior Grey Warden, had been battling them for decades, while Derek had never even known somebody who had seen one until then.

"They're hideous creatures, that much everyone knows," Duncan told him. "And fearsome warriors. Not particularly skilled with a blade or bow, many times, but bloody hard to bring down. They tend to be heavily armored, and pain doesn't slow them down very much."

"How does one kill them, then, if it's so difficult?" Derek asked.

"Persistence, mostly. And organization. Darkspawn are not naturally organized fighters. They're like a swarm of bees; they're all attacking you, but they aren't really working together. They may have the benefit of numbers, but we have brains."

"But what if this _is_ a Blight? Would there not be an archdemon giving them orders?" Duncan regarded him with a sharp eye.

"This _is_ a Blight, I assure you. The archdemon simply has yet to show itself. As for orders, it does command the horde, but it doesn't micromanage it. It sends groups out and gives them a broad task, but that's as far as its orders tend to go."

"Then how does one kill an archdemon? Wouldn't that end this?" Derek kicked a loose stone in his path, sending it bouncing ahead of them. Byron chased after it.

"That is a discussion best saved for a later time," Duncan told him firmly, and the conversation ended.

They stopped briefly around noon beneath a large elm tree to rest. The Warden pulled a parcel wrapped in fresh leaves from a small canvas bag fastened to his belt. Leftover rabbit from the night before. The man split what remained halfway, and passed Derek his portion. The young man was starving by then, but memories of the night before still plagued him. Conversation had distracted him slightly, but with the meat in his hand, his mind wandered once again, and his appetite waned. Duncan, as he did the night before, watched him from his perch on a thick tree root.

"I find that thinking of the future helps to distract from the past," he said after a minute. "Would you like to hear about where we are going?" Derek did not answer, but Duncan continued anyway. "We will be traveling south through the hinterlands to the ruin of Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds." Picking a twig up off the ground, he drew a rough map of Ferelden, and etched an X over the place Ostagar would be. Derek watched and listened, and found he was able to nibble at the rabbit meat he held.

"The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It's fitting we make out stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself." Duncan tapped the stick's end against a point just to the side of the X. "I imagine when we arrive, we will be camped in the ruin for a few days. There are Grey Warden reinforcements coming from Orlais to fight. They should reach Ostagar shortly after we do, if we continue to make good time. I only hope King Cailan has the good sense to wait for them."

"Orlesians? Are we really so desperate?" Derek asked, genuinely surprised that the one-time enemies of Ferelden would be invited to fight with them.

"They are Wardens," Duncan said firmly, "And kin to us, regardless of their origins. And we are more desperate than you know. King Cailan expects an easy victory, but his confidence has led to an army much too small to take on the darkspawn horde. He has gathered samples of the best fighters in Ferelden to fight for him, when what he needs is a multitude more of regular troops to bolster the forces. I fear he is needlessly sending our greatest warriors to their deaths." This did not bode well with Derek. Fergus was among those warriors chosen, and was also all Derek had left; his only hope to cling to. He had to warn him of what had happened, had to keep him off the battlefield somehow.

"It should take about a week to get to Ostagar, correct?" Duncan nodded, unsure of where his recruit was going with this.

"Yes, if we keep this pace."

"Let us make it five days."


	3. A King's Welcome

_a/n: I feel like I'm talking to an empty room, but whatever. I thought I'd titillate whatever readers I have with the origins of Derek's name._

_My first playthrough, my character was a male Cousland. I very quickly designed him, eager to get the game, but it wasn't long before he began to remind me of someone… and yet, I couldn't put my finger on it. Only when he put on his angry face for the first time did things click into place for me. It was Blue Steel! Why, my character was not a nobleman at all, but a male model!_

_Yes, you heard me. Derek is named after Ben Stiller's Derek Zoolander, due to his (accidental) uncanny resemblance of the character._

_And now you know._

_Please, enjoy chapter 3._

oooooooooo

They hadn't been able to make it to Ostagar in the five days Derek had hoped for, but by the afternoon of the sixth day, the white marble tower of the ruined city was in sight. They were also beginning to see signs of civilization on the roads- a line of burned out torches along the ditch, mabari tracks in the mud, and the occasional doodad lost from a soldier's pack or dropped from the back of a cart. Soon enough, they heard hoof beats coming up behind them. A courier on horseback was passing by at a canter.

"Oy!" Duncan called out as he approached, and the messenger slowed his muddied bay horse, pulling lightly at the reigns. The Warden reached into his coin purse and passed a bit of silver to the rider, and they had a quiet discussion while Derek watched. After a moment, the rider sat up in his saddle and urged his horse onwards with a sharp click of his tongue. Duncan watched him go, vanishing quickly around a bend in the road.

"We are very nearly there," he told Derek. "I've sent word of our arrival ahead with the messenger. I'm sure the king will send somebody to greet us. He's enamored with the Wardens." Derek could not tell if his elder thought this was a good thing or not. "After that, you will meet the other Wardens."

"Am I the only recruit you have?" Derek asked. The idea that there might be others hadn't occurred to him before now. He had been too caught up in all that had happened to give it much thought.

"No, there are two other recruits here already. They have been waiting for us to arrive." The noble absorbed the information, a flicker of hope dawning in him. It was somehow comforting, knowing that he wouldn't be alone in this. Duncan gestured at the thin forest and ruins around them. "The king's forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall."

After an hour more of walking, they reached the crumbling gate. Just past it stood a fair-haired man, pacing about in glistening gold-embossed armor. Behind him, a pair of guards waited motionless. At the sight of the approaching Warden and recruit, the pacing man's face lit up, and he called out.

"Ho there, Duncan!" Duncan reeled, surprised.

"King Cailan! I didn't expect-" The king seized the older man's hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

"A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!" Derek couldn't help but stare. Teyrn's son though he was, he had never met the king, and this was certainly not what he was expecting. Cailan was a smiling man, barely older than he was. His blue eyes shone with a young boy's delight. His armor, gleaming like a beacon for any foes, denoted that he either intended to stay out of the battle, had another set of armor for the fighting (which made no sense, to Derek- why would he not wear it in case of an unexpected attack?), or perhaps most disturbing, that Cailan had no experience in warfare at all. Surely the king realized that such extravagant, _shiny_ armor would attract attacks like moths to a flame? He all but reeked of importance. Duncan saw Derek's incredulous expression, but said nothing of it, and indulged Cailan.

"Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

"Then I'll have the mighty Duncan by my side in battle after all! Glorious! The other Wardens told me you've found a promising recruit." The king looked over at Derek, who shifted his weight, uncomfortable to be so suddenly thrust under the king's attention. "I take it this is he?"

"Allow me to introduce you, your Majesty," Duncan offered, but Cailan shook his head.

"No need, Duncan. You are Bryce's youngest, are you not?" It was like a stab to the heart. Cailan grinned at Derek, who couldn't find it in himself to smile back. "I don't think we've actually met."

"Are you not even aware my father is dead?" Derek heard himself ask, pain clear on his face and in the tone of his voice. The king faltered.

"Dead? What do you mean?" He snapped his attention back to the senior Warden. "Duncan, do you know anything about this?"

"Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead, your Majesty. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped," he added, glancing at his newest recruit, "he would have killed us and told you any story he wished." The king seemed genuinely stricken by the news. He shook his head, turning away from the new arrivals while he processed what they had told him. One of the king's guards grimaced and took a small step to the side as a sharp ray of light reflected off of the king's plated shoulder and into his eyes. _If nothing else, he will blind the darkspawn_, Derek bitterly joked to himself through his grief.

"I… can scarcely believe it! How could he think he would get away with such treachery!" He turned again, facing his company. Pure betrayal was written across his face. "As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word," he swore gravely to the orphaned noble.

"What kind of justice?" Derek asked, hoping for the worst. Cailan's eyes hardened, showing some ferocity.

"He will _hang_," he spat, pounding one fist into an open palm. "I know that will not bring your family back, but Howe will not profit from this." His features softened again as he went on speaking. "No doubt you wish to see your brother. Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the Wilds." Derek dropped his gaze to his feet. Fergus was the reason he had insisted on rushing to Ostagar. Looking back, he felt foolish for having imagined that things would return to normal once he reunited with him. His brother's family was dead, too, after all, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. Fergus would be grieving, as well. There would be no comfort in finding him as he had hoped. His brother would likely be angry with him for failing to protect them and refuse to speak with him again, and then he would have nothing.

"I am not eager to tell him, your Majesty," he admitted quietly. The scant amount of food he had eaten that day rolled unpleasantly in his stomach as images of innocent young Oren, dead in his mother's arms, resurfaced unbidden. The king was sympathetic.

"Of that, I have no doubt. You will see him again once the battle is over, I am certain. I apologize, but there is nothing more I can do. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being."

"Thank you, your Majesty," the youngest Cousland said, at last remembering his manners, and Cailan regarded Duncan once more.

"I'm sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies."

"Your uncle sends his greetings," Duncan told him, recalling a message he had been sent with, "and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week." Cailan laughed.

"Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow will be no different."

"I didn't realize things were going so well," blurted Derek, glancing between them. What with the king's apparent incompetence, and Duncan's constant reassurances that the situation was grim indeed, stacked upon his preexisting despair… The king frowned, and spun around, pacing back to look over the valley where the battle would take place.

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight. There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we've seen no sign of an archdemon." The blonde scanned the skies, as if hoping to see the dragon mastermind behind the attacks soaring overhead. Duncan seemed annoyed by it, but hid it well.

"Disappointed, your Majesty?" Cailan turned his head slightly, and shrugged.

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But," he said with a sigh, looking back at the old Warden, "I suppose this will have to do." Derek could have laughed, if the subject matter were not so grim and he was not so miserable. He supposed the king had also hoped that Duncan would arrive in brilliant shining armor to rival his own on the back of a white gryphon. "I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!" And the king turned to head back to camp, guards trailing behind.

Duncan waited until Cailan was out of earshot, and then spoke as slowly he began walking towards the bulk of the camp, and the bridge that separated them from it. "What the king said is true. They've won several battles against the darkspawn here."

"Yet you don't sound very reassured."

"I know there is an archdemon behind this," insisted Duncan. "But I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling."

"Why not?" postulated Derek, shrugging and looking out at the ancient bridge that spanned between the two halves of Ostagar. "He seems to regard the Grey Wardens highly."

"Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Grey Wardens of Orlais. He believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable," the man scoffed, joining Derek at the mouth of the bridge. It was clear he was worried, which did nothing to set Derek's heart at ease. "Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference." Duncan put a hand on the recruit's shoulder. "To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay."

"A hot meal might be nice, first," muttered Derek. There was the smell of stew in the air, and he intended to find its source. Duncan laughed for the first time since Derek had begun traveling with him, catching him off guard.

"I agree! We have until nightfall to begin the ritual. Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden," he informed him. "The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon."

Not entirely paying attention, Derek mumbled under his breath, "I need to find Fergus." If things were so dire, as Duncan kept reassuring him they were, then he needed to speak to his brother immediately, regardless of how he would react to the grim news he bore, and warn him to stay off the front lines. Cousland honor and duty did them no good if there were no Couslands surviving. So many had died already, and he could not bear to lose his only family… He peered out at the land off the bridge, hoping to see his brother emerge from the woods with his troops. Duncan interrupted his thoughts.

"You heard what the king said: he is scouting in the Wilds and beyond contact. Be patient, he will return." Derek bit his lip, but looked away from the treeline. With any luck, the battle would take place before Fergus returned.

"What do you need of me?"

"Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it's time to gather the other recruits. Your hound can stay with me while I attend to some business." Byron barked happily. He approved of Duncan thoroughly, though Derek couldn't say why. "The Grey Warden tent is on the other side of this bridge. You will find us there, should you need to." With that, Duncan left him alone to go talk to some important looking man standing further along the bridge. Byron bounced along behind him, invigorated by the rich and potent smells in the air. Derek watched them go, and began heading for camp himself. He was starving, and he also hoped to find somewhere he could clean himself and his armor. After a week wearing it, they were both smelling rather ripe. An excitable looking guard at the gate on the far end of the bridge stopped him with a friendly greeting before he could get far, though.

"Hail! You must be the Grey Warden recruit that Duncan brought," he said, adjusting his iron helmet. There was a sudden clatter inside the camp, and both men peeked in to see a bunch of soldiers hauling crates of supplies out of the back of an ox-pulled cart. One of the crates had fallen to the ground and broken open, and a couple of the men were hurrying to gather the spilled contents. "This place hasn't seen such bustle in centuries, I'll wager," the sociable guard said, looking back at Derek. "Need a hand getting anywhere?"

"Anywhere I could get something to eat?" The guard grinned at the question.

"Hungry, eh? They're doling out rations over by where the quartermaster's set up shop. He'll be on this side of the ruin, of course, to the northwest. You were just on the eastern side. The Tower of Ishal is there, but Teyrn Loghain's closed it off until the battle. This side is the king's camp. We got the Grey Wardens here, the Circle of Magi, the Chantry… you can't swing a dead cat without hitting somebody important," the man confided. He sounded somewhat starstruck.

"The Circle of Magi is here?" Derek had never met a mage before; his parents had not had a resident healer at Castle Cousland since before he was born. At least, not that he knew of. There were stories of apostates roaming the kingdom, pretending they had no magic at all and working it only in secrecy.

"A few mages, yes," the guard told him, waving as a soldier he knew passed by. "They even brought those creepy quiet fellows, the Tranquil. Give me the shivers when they talk, all cold and even. They're to the north of here, bunched up with a herd of templars glaring at them. Can't miss it," he almost sang, as if it were great entertainment.

"I'm looking for a Grey Warden named Alistair," Derek prompted, remembering what Duncan had told him. This man seemed to know a lot of the camp; perhaps he could point him in the right direction. The guard thought for a moment, rubbing his chin.

"Try heading north. I think he was sent with a message to the mages." Sent to talk to mages? Perhaps this Alistair was a mage himself. Derek imagined him to be a wizened old man, perhaps clad in loose robes and bearing a gnarled oak staff, and with such a severe sounding name as 'Alistair', he was probably as pleasant as rashvine in one's small clothes. The Grey Warden-to-be brushed the thought away as useless conjecture, and nodded his thanks to the talkative guard.

"I'll be on my way."

"Good luck to you, then," the guard called after him, and Derek moved along into the camp. Almost immediately there was a fork in the path, wrapping around an old watch tower. On a whim, he chose the left, and found himself standing outside what could only be the tents belonging to the king and Teyrn Loghain. They were both vividly colored; the king's was the pale blue and gold of Ferelden, while Loghain's were of Gwaren's emerald and orange. Noticing a throng of soldiers gathered around something on a landing above the tents, Derek drew closer, slowly ascending the stairs. Most of the soldiers looked young and green. Several seemed frightened of whatever it was they were clustered around. As he got near, he realized what it was. A dead darkspawn genlock- that is what Duncan had called the ones that were the size of dwarves- was sprawled across the cobbles. It was everything as ugly as Duncan had told him, with greenish, sickly skin and a horrible deformed face. It wore spiked shoulder pads and cloth-covered plate armor stained dark with blood. The smell was appalling- rancid and metallic. It burned his nostrils, but he forced himself to smell it. It would be far worse on the battlefield with them, he was sure.

Above it stood an officer, lecturing the men. "Look carefully men- this is a darkspawn. They're strong, and cunning smart. But don't listen to those old wives tales... they can be killed. Stick them with your sword enough, they go down. Their blood is black as sin and poisonous. Don't even touch it. You get tainted with that blood and you may as well slit your throat. We've lost many dogs already. Had to muzzle them to keep them from biting. It's a long and painful way to die..."

_Good to know_, Derek thought grimly, thinking of his faithful hound. The last thing he wanted was for Byron to suffer such a fate, but he knew there was no way he could keep the dog out of the battle if it wanted in. If he could find his way into the larder, Byron could doubtlessly wander onto a battlefield unnoticed by his master.

Past the knot of soldiers, a line of archers practiced their aim on straw dummies, drawing and firing arrows simultaneously. When their quivers were empty, as if it were a well practiced motion, they all walked down to the dummes and wrenched their arrows free. Every one had hit a vital area of the dummies. Duncan had not exaggerated when he said Cailan had gathered the best to Ostagar.

Having seen everything in that part of the camp, he turned back, passing between the two tents once more and heading towards the back wall of the ruin. Almost immediately he came across the Grey Warden tent, a heraldic gryphon emblazoned on its flap. A roaring fire was lit outside. Byron was standing attentively by it, barking in response to another hound's call across the camp. Perhaps they were trading news, Derek wondered. Certainly there was a lot to tell.

He kept walking, though, still intent on finding dinner. Past their tent, a trio of men with a mabari each were waiting by an unlit heap of logs. The leader was talking to an elf messenger, but as Derek approached, the elf left, dashing back towards the king's tent. He would have passed them by, if their hounds weren't painted with intricate patterns along their entire bodies. Intrigued, Derek approached the one who had been talking to the elf, vaguely aware of an odd, almost clovelike scent in the air. The man scowled when he saw him.

"What do _you_ need? You haven't brought more instructions from the teyrn, I hope."

"'More instructions?'" Derek repeated, confused. The man shifted his weight impatiently and explained.

"Teyrn Loghain has changed out scouting route a dozen times." He paused, and eyed Derek suspiciously. "If you're not from the teyrn, what do you want? We're busy."

"Can I ask you something?" Derek asked, testing the waters. The man sighed.

"Make it quick."

"Why have you painted your dogs?" The conversation turned to the hounds, the man seemed to liven up a bit.

"They use scent to distinguish us from our enemies, but the blood of battle can confuse them. So," he said, gesturing at his own handsome red mabari, "we paint ourselves with kaddis, which overpowers the blood, and also paint our hounds, so they know we are the same."

_Clever_, Derek thought to himself, admiring the hound's paintjob, _and useful in more ways than they know_. He thought of the heavy stench of blood that had hit him when he had discovered... Well... Perhaps if he got himself and Byron some kaddis, the smell of blood wouldn't bother him so much. Then, another thought hit him, one more unpleasant.

"What if the enemy is painted with kaddis, as well?" This aroused the man's suspicions again. Derek saw his hand reach for the hilt of his sword.

"Why? Would you steal our kaddis and give it to the darkspawn hordes?"

"I hope you're joking," Derek rebuked, surprised that he would think such a thing.

"If you tried, we would kill you. And that is no joke."

"Of course I wouldn't," he was quick to defend himself. "I was wondering where I might obtain some for my _own_ mabari, though." The man sniffed, perhaps with derision, or maybe to see if he could smell dog on this overly inquisitive stranger. Most likely the latter, Derek decided, when the man then consulted his hound, who 'whuff'ed an affirmation at his master and laid its head down, listening but disinterested.

"I see. I don't have any extra, but I suggest you talk to the kennel master tomorrow morning. He is too busy tonight, tending to the sick." The scout grew solemn and looked down at his mabari with some concern. The battle would mean death to a great many dogs, it seemed, if so many were already sick with the taint.

Feeling he had overstayed his welcome, Derek began stepping away. "I should be going."

"My thanks," the man growled. "There is hunting to be done, and I'll not be kept from it."

Brows arched, Derek walked briskly away from the scouting party, glad to be free of the oppressive atmosphere they provided, but also grateful to learn about the kaddis. He wandered past yet another guard, standing with another painted mabari at one of the camp's exits. It was closed off with a heavy makeshift gate. There was a sloped path up to a higher tier of the ruin to the right of it, which he took, following his nose towards what he hoped would be an early dinner. There hadn't been much food to go around during his and Duncan's southward journey, only a few stale biscuits and a brace of conies, and even army rations would seem a feast to him at that point. Pure hunger, the likes of which he had never really known before, had helped him overcome the queasiness he had felt at the thought of eating meat. It was the small things, he remembered Mother Mallol telling him once, that one should be most grateful for. For the first time, Derek thought he understood.

Passing under the remains of a stone arch, Derek found himself in a makeshift infirmary. A nurse was tending to a wounded soldier lying on a cot to his right. He was groaning as she changed bandages on his leg. The blood on the soiled rags was black, and smelled eerily similar to the slaughtered darkspawn he had seen. Was this the taint that the officer had been talking about before?

Another soldier further back began to wail and rant himself, crying out about how the darkspawn would devour the earth and spoil all that was good. The nurse quickly secured the new bandages and hurried to the other soldier's side, trying to keep him on the cot. He kept trying to climb off it, even though all that remained of one leg was a bloody stump. Pained and disturbed by the sight, the Warden recruit turned his eyes instead to what seemed to be a priest praying with a small group of knights before a statue of Andraste. When he approached, she invited him into her small alcove with open arms.

"Ah! I suspect you are one of the new Grey Wardens," she said. She radiated a calm that only priests seemed capable of, sure that their Maker would see that things ended well. "Will you accept the Maker's blessing?"

He thought seriously about refusing. What had the Maker done to help him before? His entire family lay dead, with the exception of Fergus, who was irretrievably missing, and his estate was stolen by the traitor to blame. All this after heartfelt prayer from a victim of Howe's evil crime, and a briefer plea from Derek himself. And yet, he found he could not refuse.

"I will. Thank you." As she blessed him, he bowed his head, hoping for something incredible, something... miraculous. Something that could put an end to this Blight, bring Howe to his knees, restore his family- what was left of it- to what it once was...

The priest finished the blessing, and he looked up. She was smiling benevolently at him, as if she sensed the Maker gazing down on them. He wished he could feel the warmth and comfort she found in the idea. But he couldn't. His heart and body were cold, and everything still seemed so bleak to him.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he broke away from the group. As he was leaving, though, one of the knights stopped him.

"Greetings!" The man said. He was a tall and burly, a born warrior, but something in his eyes suggested he was simpler than the average man. "You must be the third recruit we've heard about." So he was one of the others collected by the Grey Wardens.

"I am. Who are you?"

"Ser Jory is my name. I hail from Redcliffe, where I served as knight under the command of Arl Eamon. You have the bearing of a man who knows how to fight. If I may ask, were you a soldier before you came here?" Derek was about to tell him that he wasn't, though his father had trained him to wield a blade, but that wound was still open and raw. Even as he caught himself thinking of his father, his smiling image was replaced by one much bloodier, much more painful to recall. Instead, he answered plainly, if a bit enigmatically.

"No, I've never been a soldier."

"You obviously impressed Duncan, and that's enough for me," Ser Jory declared. Aeden found himself disappointed with the man, though he couldn't say why. Perhaps he had been hoping for someone more complex, someone who could listen and relate, or at the very least distract. Jory, however... He seemed sincere, but one-dimensional. He was not a man Aeden could imagine himself relying on in a fix. He was not Ser Gilmore. Immediately, Derek felt a sharp pang of longing for his old friend, knowing all too well that he most likely died at the gates with the other knights when Arl Howe's men broke through. "I hope we're both lucky enough to eventually join the Wardens. Is it not thrilling to be given the chance?"

"I would not be here is I had a choice in the matter," Derek told him honestly, seeing no harm in the truth. Jory seemed surprised, and taken aback. Clearly he had been hoping for some time to find himself among the Warden, and expected all others to feel the same.

"I fought hard to get here. Impressing Duncan was not easy," Jory said, as if it made him more entitled to the position. "Tell me, has anyone told you what this Joining ritual entails?"

"It's all a big secret, apparently," Derek responded. He didn't much care about the Joining, really. He had other concerns.

"I've never heard of such a ritual," Jory continued. "I had no idea there would be more tests after getting recruited... Anyway, I suppose since you're finally here I'd best get back to Duncan. I shall see you there," the knight said, and began walking back to their tent, armor clinking. Derek frowned, and went on his way, passing a prisoner and ignoring his attempts to call him over. As he went down the ramp on the other side of the tier, he saw an archer with the Grey Warden's coat of arms on his chest talking to a stern looking but attractive blonde. Could this be Alistair? Once in earshot, he realized quickly that the Warden was unabashedly hitting on the woman, and unsuccessfully. Rather than interrupt and incur her wrath, he hung back and waited until she walked off with a huff. Seeing his opening, he moved in. The moment he saw Derek, the man made an odd face.

"Well, you're not what I thought you'd be." Not sure if that was a compliment or a slight, Derek probed him to elaborate.

"What did you think I'd be?"

"Me? I was hoping for a comely lass with golden hair and terrible eyesight." The man laughed. "The name's Daveth. It's about bloody time you came along. I was beginning to think they cooked this ritual up just for our benefit." So he wasn't this Alistair fellow, after all. And once again, he was not what Derek had been expecting, although he still wasn't sure what he had been expecting in the first place. Certainly not a single-minded skirt chaser.

"Maybe they did."

"Just to give us a good scare? No, they don't really seem the type. I happened to be sneaking around camp last night, see, and I heard a couple of Grey Wardens talking. So I listen in for a bit," Daveth shared, scratching at his stubble. "I'm thinking they plan to send us into the Wilds."

"Maybe they will. We'll see." Daveth wasn't so comfortable with the thought. He danced from foot to foot, jittery.

"It's all too secretive for me. Makes my nose twitch. But, I guess we'll have to wait and see. Like we have a choice," he muttered unhappily, sharp features made sharper with the loss of his cheeky smile.

"They're forcing you to be here?" That was something he could relate to. Daveth sighed, and suddenly seemed weary.

"I got nowhere else to go after what Duncan saved me from. Anyway, I expect it's time to get back to Duncan. That's where I'll be, if you need me for anything." As if evading further questions, Daveth wasted no time in slipping away in the bustling crowd, leaving Derek unsatisfied. The archer's story sounded very similar to his own. Perhaps a little too similar. Just how many recruits had Duncan 'saved' in the past? Was it possible that he was involved in Howe's treachery? All of the trust he had built with the man over the past week fell away in an instant.

His sudden foul mood was remedied in part, however, when he realized he was standing right next to a rations cart. A foul-tempered, greasy looking man was doling out wooden bowls of soup to a line of famished soldiers. Derek stepped into line, and glanced around while he waited. Across the path was the quartermaster, handing a pile of armor to a soldier. On his other side, the Denerim Chantry's revered mother was preaching to a small crowd from a raised platform. It was a group of violet tents nearby that caught his eye, however.

Looking closer, he could see a group of people in white robes manipulating a swirling mist behind the tents. Mages. He had heard a lot about them, but little good- most accounts he heard claimed them to be powerful, but oftentimes reckless, and recklessness and a craving for power are what led to maleficars and abominations. Still, he wondered about them. Were they really so bad? He did not trust the accounts he had been told. After all, a great many men had misconceptions about him because of his title. Who was he to judge another for what they had been born into?

It was his turn in line, and he only realized it when the man serving him shoved a bowl of steaming stew into his hands. It slopped over the edge a bit, scalding Derek's fingers. "Maker's blood!" he cried out, shaking the offended hand in the air as he walked away. When he looked up, he spotted an older woman with a staff leaning near a tree by the mages' tents, watching him. His curiosity piqued, he wandered her way. She welcomed him gracefully.

"Greetings, young man. You are Duncan's newest recruit, are you not? He's not a man easily impressed. You should be proud." Maker, did _everyone_ in this camp know Duncan? "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king." More of the best, Derek was sure. Cailan would have no less, it seemed.

"I am Derek," he told her simply, not wishing to go into his lineage. Things were simpler when nobody knew you were noble.

"Well met, and good luck to you on the battlefield. To us all, in fact."

"It's not luck, but skill that will save us." For indeed, it seemed luck had forsaken the young Cousland.

"And I'm sure you have plenty of that to offer," she replied, noting his worn armor and the blades fastened to his back. "To defeat the darkspawn, we have to work together. It's not an idea everyone seems able to grasp." Derek nodded in agreement. Duncan had told him something similar before- even if the man was not to be trusted, his goals were all oriented towards the defeat of the darkspawn. Derek took his word on the matter to be true.

"You've faced darkspawn before?" he asked the mage.

"Stragglers, yes- not the vast horde the scouts speak of. I wonder... how much do you know of the connection between darkspawn and the Fade?" Wynne asked him in return. He recalled the stories that his mentor, Aldous, had told him when he was young.

"I know the Fade is where you go when you dream."

"Any time your spirit leaves your earthly body, whether it's to dream or to die, it passes into the realm we call the Fade. It's home to many spirits, some benevolent, others far less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City." This he was not familiar with.

"What's the Black City?"

"Some say the Black City was once the seat of the Maker. But when mages from the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the City, it was tainted with their sin. That taint transformed those men, turning them into twisted reflections of their own hearts. And the Maker cast them back to the earth, where they became the first darkspawn." Wynne laughed, a single huff of air. "At least, that's what the Chant of Light says," she told him, nodding at the Chanter nearby, spreading the word to those who would listen.

"The Chantry says many things," Derek said, following her gaze. A dozen templars were kneeling before the revered mother, mindlessly drinking in her every word.

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering. Or it may be true. It is as good an explanation as any, for now."

"I'll just kill every darkspawn I see." The simple answer was often the best; another lesson Aldous had taught him. He didn't care where the darkspawn came from, only that they needed to be stopped.

"A wise attitude," commended the mage. "It's worked for me in the past. But I'm certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me." She smiled, waving him off with a flick of her wrist, like a mother shooing her children outside. If she was a good example of a mage of the Circle, Derek decided as he finished his soup and passed the bowl to a soldier who was stacking them back in the cart, then he didn't mind them so much.

All the same, she had been right. He still had to seek out this Alistair that Duncan had told him of. Perhaps he should have asked Wynne... ah, it didn't matter. He would find him eventually. There were few places left to look, anyhow. The guard had told him to search to the north, and the only place he hadn't already been was in what used to be the interior of what may have been Ostagar's great hall, or chapel. Sure that Alistair must be inside, Derek climbed the steps and wandered into the ruin. Almost immediately he heard voices arguing up a ramp to the right. He followed them to find a man his age in what seemed to be a heated argument with a middle-aged mage. Slowly he closed in on them, listening to them go back and forth.

"What is it _now_? Haven't the Grey Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?" the mage asked bitterly. So Alistair was the young one, then. Aeden was admittedly relieved that he wasn't a bitter old geezer.

"I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence," Alistair informed him.

"What her Reverence 'desires' is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Grey Wardens- by the king's orders, I might add!" The mage jabbed a finger angrily at Alistair, who laughed, incredulous.

"Should I have asked her to write a note?" he quipped smartly. The mage's face went red at that.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!"

"Yes, I was harassing _you_ by delivering a message." His words dripped with sarcasm.

"Your glibness does you no credit," spat the mage angrily. Derek half expected him to pull the staff from his back and reduce the Warden to cinders. Still, Alistair did not stop.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you... the _grumpy_ one." Derek snorted with laughter, and the mage shot him a venomous look.

"Enough! I will speak to the woman if I must! Get out of my way, fool," he snarled as he pushed past Derek, robes swirling behind him. Alistair laughed bitterly, and meandered over.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

"I know exactly what you mean," Derek replied, still somewhat stunned by the mage's hostility. Alistair nodded, and held his hands up in the air.

"It's like a _party_; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about. Wait- we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?" he asked warily as he examined Derek, as if he were looking for a staff or cowl hidden somewhere.

"Don't worry, I'm no mage." Immediately the other Warden relaxed.

"Less being yelled at for me, then. Though the day is still young. Wait- I _do_ know who you are. You're Duncan's new recruit, from Highever!" He seemed very excited. Perhaps he had also been underwhelmed by the other recruits. "I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

"How could you recognize me?" Derek asked, slightly on edge. Surely he didn't know the Cousland family? That would certainly make things awkward. He had no desire to speak of his late family, and neither did he want to undermine the little authority Alistair seemed to have by flaunting his nobility. It seemed to him that the sandy haired man before him had been demeaned enough in his short life. Something about his posture and mannerisms made Derek think that Alistair was very used to deflecting attention from himself, as if he was raised a follower and reminded constantly of it by his superiors. Derek had seen it before, in the servants visiting nobles had often brought to the castle. The Couslands treated their people civilly, but that was rare in the upper classes. All too often, the ladies-in-waiting and manservants brought along with their masters were a nervous bunch, experts at easing their master's bad tempers and making themselves scarce when the task seemed impossible. Alistair did not look like any manservant Derek had ever seen before, but that air of self-belittlement and shield of humor were defenses he was familiar- albeit, uncomfortable- with.

"Duncan sent word. He spoke quite highly of you. Ah-" Alistair stood up straight, the image of politeness, but there was a sense of frivolity in the display. "Allow me to introduce myself: I'm Alistair, the new Grey Warden," he said, but then frowned slightly. "But I guess you already knew that." He hadn't- Duncan had barely spoken of the other Wardens on the way to Ostagar- but he didn't interrupt. "As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

"My name is Derek. Pleased to meet you." And he _was_ pleased, he was surprised to note. This man... well, he reminded him of Fergus, when he was younger. Maybe his jokes were made in defense of his insecurities, but the opinions he voiced were honest, and his attitude more or less relaxed. The familiarity he already felt with the man was comforting, like a rock to cling to in a tumultuous sea.

"Right. That was the name. So, I'm curious: Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"

"No, I haven't." Not unless he counted the single dead genlock.

"When I fought my first one," Alistair told him solemnly, "I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another." There was a brief lull in the conversation as Alistair scratched the back of his neck, grimacing at the thought of a whole darkspawn horde. "Anyhow, whenever you're ready, let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

"That argument... what was it about?" asked Derek, too curious to let it go.

"With the mage? The Circle is here at the king's request and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just _love_ letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts _me _in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a templar." Suddenly the pieces fell into place. Templars were raised mage hunters; what mages were accepted by the Chantry were locked away in a tower on Lake Calenhad and guarded by the knights. There was no end of bad blood between the two groups, and they never saw eye to eye.

"Ah. That _would_ be awkward."

"I'm sure the revered mother meant it as an insult- sending me as her messenger- and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn't get the same speech."

"Well, at any rate- I look forward to traveling with you," Derek said. Alistair raised one eyebrow, as if his companion had been speaking in a foreign tongue.

"You do? Huh. That's a switch." He shrugged. "If you have any questions, let me know. Otherwise, lead on!"

"Before we head back, I need to stop at the quartermaster's," Derek told him. "I need to pick up some supplies. A whetstone, a flint…"

"What? You mean to say you left Highever completely unprepared?" Alistair asked him. He sounded concerned, not for Derek, but for the future of the order. "Now, I could imagine a new recruit forgetting something as obvious as a whetstone, but Duncan? He _is_ turning into an old man. Going senile, I'm sure," he joked.

"We left in a hurry," Derek told him, and left it at that. The way he pressed ahead of the junior Warden suggested that he didn't want to talk about it. Alistair's smile wilted. He considered asking, but decided against it, choosing instead to pick up the pace and walk at his side. As the moved on, Alistair spoke again,

"I'm just kidding, of course. Duncan's great, really. Sharp as a tack, he is." Derek paused, and carefully scanned Alistair's face, trying to determine if he could really trust him.

"Tell me about Duncan," he requested. The other Warden seemed glad to answer.

"Duncan is the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden… which he would say doesn't mean much, as there aren't many of us here. Yet. Beyond that, he's a good man," Alistair said sincerely. "A good judge of character. I owe him a lot." More debt to Duncan. Derek grew more wary of the man by the second. It was _possible_ that the man really was as charitable as the others made him out to be, but was it _likely_? If he was as sharp as Alistair seemed to think he was, he could have the wool pulled over their eyes.

"What about you?" Alistair asked him, apparently trying to make an appraisal of Derek, as well. "What do you think of him?" He hesitated a moment before cautiously responding.

"He… seems like a kind man, if firm." It seemed to past the test, as Alistair relaxed slightly and the mood lightened.

"Fair enough. He's done the best he can with what little he has… and that includes me, I guess. You want to ask me about something else?"

"Yes, actually," Derek mused aloud. "Is there somewhere I could try and wash some of this grime off before the whole 'secret ritual' ordeal? It's starting to itch something awful, under there," he appended as he gestured vaguely at his armor, as if it were important.

"Er, you might want to wait until _after_ the Joining, I think. I wish I could tell you more," he defended himself, seeing the question on Derek's face. "Maybe ask me again after Duncan speaks to you about it."

"It's dirty, then? Please tell me we aren't mud wrestling mabaris to prove our strength, or any such rubbish."

"Hah! I wish. No, really- could you imagine? People would pay good gold for that, I think. Although, we would have far fewer Wardens around than we do. Something tells me the average archer or mage wouldn't be able to pin down a kitten, let alone a war hound." Smiling, he continued to joke and jest all the way to the quartermaster's area, where Derek began to carefully inspect and select gear he would need in the future. When he had finished browsing and a significant amount of silver had changed hands, he now owned a bedroll, flint, a whetstone, a jar of nug oil and camellia oil each (for his blades and armor, respectively), some dried field rations, a canteen, and a small burlap sack of medical supplies. Hoisting the bedroll onto one shoulder and carrying the rest of his new supplies in his free hand, he silently accompanied a very talkative Alistair ("And think- suppose it was an _elf_ mage! A _female_ elf mage!") back to their tent, completely distracted from his recent tragedy for the very first time.


	4. The Witch of the Wilds

Duncan was waiting for them by the large flaming pyre near their tent, amidst a small bustling crowd of Wardens who paid the recruits no attention, too busy honing blades and examining armor and wolfing down food. No sooner had Derek dropped off his new supplies than Duncan was calling him over. The other two recruits were already waiting there; Ser Jory was standing stalwart across the fire from Duncan and watching a dark haired elf fletch his arrows, and Daveth leaned with arms crossed against one of the many statues around the fire, foot tapping with impatience or anxiety. Derek grimaced, but heeded the call, ambling over at his own pace with Alistair at his heels.

"You found Alistair, did you? Good. I'll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course, that you're quite finished riling up mages, Alistair." Duncan turned a stern eye on Alistair, who subconsciously straightened up like a chastised schoolboy. The younger man shook his head helplessly, and held out his arms.

"What can I say? The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt they should stick her in the army," he grumbled in his defense. Duncan wasn't having any of it.

"She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don't need to give anyone more ammunition against us." From the tired way he said it, it seemed this was a speech Duncan gave the young Warden often. Alistair shifted his weight guiltily, refusing to meet Duncan's eyes. Derek found himself scowling at Duncan. Didn't he realize that Alistair thought very little of himself as it was? It was plain as day, and still the man scolded him. Did he intend to ruin the few soldiers he had with his negativity? Bryce had taught him that a firm hand was important, but so was compassion. He saw none of the latter in his severe leader, no matter what he had told Alistair. He only saw a cold commander plotting and scheming to get his way, regardless of cost.

"You're right, Duncan. I apologize," Alistair was saying, disheartened. The older man was satisfied, it seemed, since he then addressed the recruits.

"Now then, since you are all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks." Daveth tapped Derek discreetly on the arm, and gave him a look that clearly stated 'what did I tell you?' Duncan either did not notice or did not care, because he just kept on going. "The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit." Of course. To prove they could actually kill a darkspawn on their lonesomes, he was sure. And in the secret ritual they would use the blood as face paint and dance around the pyre in a circle, or something equally ridiculous. Wasn't that how all secret rituals were? Still, Derek didn't doubt that between the three of them they could kill a single darkspawn. It did not concern him, not nearly as much as it apparently had Ser Jory concerned. The man was all but shaking in his boots; he was sweating profusely, and was glancing anxiously between Duncan and his fellow recruits.

"And what's the second task?" Derek prompted, wishing to just get it all over with.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can." Alistair nodded dutifully. He really was quite loyal to Duncan, in spite of Duncan's callousness towards him. Like a puppy, almost. A puppy denied the attention it so craved.

"And what if these scrolls are no longer there?" Derek asked Duncan. It would be his luck, and the last thing he wanted to do was scour the entire Korcari Wilds for them.

"It's possible the scrolls may have been destroyed or even stolen," conceded Duncan gravely, "though the seal's magic should have protected them. Only a Grey Warden can break such a seal." Alistair held up a hand, troubled.

"I don't understand… why leave such things in a ruin if they're so valuable?" Duncan pursed his lips, as if revisiting a memory that had soured with age.

"It was assumed we would someday return. A great many things were assumed that have not held true."

"And how will we _find_ this archive?" inquired Derek, still very skeptical of the whole idea. That a collection of valuable documents could have gone unnoticed and unharmed in the Wilds for decades at a time seemed unlikely to him, at best.

"It will be an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should remain intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search."

"Find the archive and three vials of blood," parroted the recruit flatly. "Understood."

"The scrolls contain treaties promising support. Treaties that may prove valuable in the days to come," Duncan said then, stressing their importance. Something in the way he told them reminded Derek strongly of his father, and how he would say something and mean much more. A wave of grief crashed into Derek upon thinking about his father, but he tried to focus instead on what Duncan had said. He made it sound a lot like he expected the battle to turn in the darkspawn's favor, tomorrow. It didn't sound good at all. He frowned as Duncan nodded at Alistair. "Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly, and safely."

"We will."

"Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return."

It was time for them to go, then. Alistair led them out towards the gate Derek had noticed earlier. Derek jumped a little when he heard a voice right behind him, and Daveth appeared, clapping a hand across his shoulders unwelcomed.

"Well, in for a silver, in for a crown, as my dear mum always used to say. With the battle tomorrow, what's a few more darkspawn to kill, eh?" Derek's frown deepened into a scowl and he shrugged the arm off his shoulders. Daveth laughed, and gave him his space. Ser Jory, who had been taking the rear, sped up slightly and fell into line with them. He did not speak, but it was clear he was tense. For all he had fought to impress Duncan, he almost seemed a coward, now that he was faced with more than just the concept of evil. Sensing the tense atmosphere behind him, Alistair spun on his heel and walked backwards, talking to them as he did.

"We need to get down the Wilds. The sooner you get this done, the better- trust me." They were greeted tersely at the gate by the guard with the hound, who let them through when he recognized Alistair. The junior Warden led the way out, and down into the forests. It was dark in there, and humid. Pools of stagnant water stood all around them. Somber pines and firs covered the marshy land, making it impossible to see very far ahead. Apart from the buzzing of insects and the occasional eerie whooping bird call, it was quiet. In silence they walked for some immeasurable amount of time, all four of them wary and listening carefully to the sounds of the Wild for anything out of place- a snapping twig, the rustling of armor, or the distinct stretching groan of a bowstring being drawn. The attack that came was silent, though. They didn't realize they were even being watched until Derek found himself thrown face-first into the mud, a heavy weight on his back. Hot breath ran down his neck, and he felt slimy teeth closing around his spine-

And as quick as it came, it was gone, with a yell from Ser Jory and a swing of his greatsword. There was a yelp, and hot blood splattered onto Derek's back, but then he was being hauled to his feet. He wiped the slime from his eyes to see Alistair hoisting him up, but then the templar spun away to plant his blade into another wolf. Daveth had fallen back, and was sending arrow after arrow zipping into the pack that was attacking them. They were wolves unlike Derek had ever seen- rivaling the mabari in size and aggression, they were fat and sleek from eating well. Briefly he wondered if humans were often on the menu before he pulled his own two blades from his back and began slashing at them as well. They managed to kill five before the others grew nervous of their prey and darted whimpering back into the forest, leaving the men to wipe their blades clean on the damp grass. When Derek turned to look at the corpses again, he was surprised to see Alistair feeling around their bodies, as if looking for something. Caught in the act, he grew defensive, ears a little pink.

"What? You wouldn't _believe_ some of the things you find this way. Some of it's valuable. You don't get paid for being a Warden, and you barely get fed, so I suggest you do the same with any dead- _any_- we come across in the future."

The wolves were a sign of the bad things to come, Derek reckoned, when twenty yards ahead they encountered the gnawed-upon corpse of a human scout. They paused to rummage through the dead man's belongings, only to see another carcass a short distance away. And another.

"Over here!" a weak voice called to them. They all turned their heads, searching, and spotted a living man among the dead. Quickly, they gathered around him as he floundered on the ground. His boot was off; his ankle very badly swollen, perhaps broken. He had a dozen other minor wounds around his body, Derek gathered from a cursory once-over.

"Who… is that? Grey Wardens?" The man asked, jaw clenched against the pain. He looked so much like the teyrn, in that condition, but- no. Derek refused to think about it.

"Well, he's not half as dead as he looks, is he," remarked Alistair brightly.

"My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn! Please help me… I got to… return to camp," the man choked out between gasps. From the looks and sounds of things, he likely had a few broken ribs under his crumpled armor.

"Let's try to bandage him up, at least," Derek said, unwilling to leave the man to his death. Alistair nodded approvingly at him, and undid a bag tied to his armor.

"I have bandages in my pack." They spent the next few minutes patching the soldier up, fashioning a splint out of a dead branch found nearby and securing it to his wounded leg. They also tended to the most grievous of his other wounds, leaving the minor ones for him to see to himself once he had gotten back to camp. When they had finished, the man dragged himself upright, teetering slightly.

"Thank you!" he told them gratefully, and groaned as he bent the wrong way and aggravated his wounded ribs. "I… I've got to get out of here!" And he began to jog off, favoring his damaged limb. Wolf bait if ever Derek had seen it, but there was little else they could do. It beat dying slow and painful in the mud, at least.

When the man was gone, Ser Jory finally voiced his concerns.

"Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!" Alistair held his hands before him in a calming gesture.

"Calm down, Ser Jory. We'll be fine, if we're careful."

"Those soldiers were careful, and they were still overwhelmed," the knight protested, waving a shaking hand at the carnage around them. "How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There's an entire _army_ in these forests!" Alistair repressed a groan of exasperation, and rubbed his temple.

"There are darkspawn about, but we're in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde."

"How do you know?" Ser Jory stuck his chin out defiantly, but his fear showed through. Alistair was glaring at him, slightly, unhappy that he was being so difficult. "I'm not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back."

He did sound very much like a coward to Derek, but saying so would have only made matters worse. Irritated by the prolonged conversation and itching to defuse it and move on, he jumped in on it. "We're far from helpless, here. We'll be fine." Jory stepped down, then, turning in on himself and losing his boisterousness.

"I still do not relish the thought of encountering an army," he told them. Derek could have punched him, and was vey tempted, so annoyed he was. Ser Jory had volunteered for the Wardens, had he not? He knew full well what they aimed to do, and the thought of a darkspawn horde should not have been giving him so much pause. And here they were, dawdling in the Wilds having a chat about it, when any manner of creature could be stalking them from the surrounding gloom! Alistair was apparently growing frustrated with the simple man, too.

"Know this: all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won't take us by surprise. That's why I'm _here_." Daveth, almost forgotten on the edge of the group chuckled and patted Jory on the back.

"You see, ser knight? We might die, but we'll be warned about it first." Jory stared at him, perhaps more perturbed than he had been before.

"That is… reassuring?" he offered, unsure what to say.

"That doesn't mean I'm here to make this easy, however," Alistair informed them, in case they thought otherwise. "So let's get a move on. I have a feeling there's darkspawn nearby. Be on the lookout."

They followed the destruction southwards, quickly coming upon the remains of an old stone wall, probably crumbled remains of Ostagar reclaimed by nature. Slowly they ventured onwards, alertly scanning their surroundings for an ambush. This would be a perfect place for it, with the high walls as cover. The corpses that littered the ground only strengthened the thought.

Something bright at the base of a dead, partially uprooted tree caught Derek's eye, and with his dagger drawn, he approached it. It was a flower, large and beautiful. It seemed out of place in this hellish landscape. Daveth followed him, and looked at the flower over his shoulder with some interest.

"That flower... white with a red center. The kennel master at Ostagar was asking about those."

"Why did he want them? Do you know?"

"The kennel master said this flower can help dogs that get sick from biting darkspawn. At any rate, he was offering a reward if someone went into the Wilds and brought him one. Might want to think about it, is all." At last, some good news. He had been worried about Byron. Perhaps this fragile blossom would ensure he survived the next day's battle. He carefully picked the flower, flattening its petals and wrapping it in a broad leaf taken off a nearby plant. He tied the small bundle with an overgrown blade of swamp grass, and tucked it safely away in his medical pouch. And then, they moved on. They had barely moved ten feet when an arrow hissed through the air and embedded itself in the mud at their feet.

"What the…?" Daveth uttered, stepping back. The party stood dumbstruck for a moment, wondering at the arrow, but then another one came, glancing off of Alistair's splintmail. Coming to their senses, they sought cover behind the ancient tower the uprooted tree was leaning against. Alistair peeked around the corner.

"Darkspawn," he told them briefly, and they heard an unearthly, guttural roar. "No time like the present," he went on to say, and darted out with a yell of his own, drawing his sword. Derek followed. Daveth dragged Ser Jory behind them, and pushed him ahead while he stayed back, nocking an arrow and looking for his first target.

Together, Derek and Alistair charged ahead. From the bushes jumped a man-sized brute of a darkspawn. A hurlock, he remembered from Duncan's lessons on the creatures. It snarled at him, and swung a jagged-edged blade at them both in a sweeping arc. They skidded to a stop and evaded the attack by inches. When the sword had reached the end of its swing, Derek saw his opening and violently kicked at the darkspawn's crotch. It screamed like a stuck pig, and struggled to drag its massive blade back for a second attack, but the humans were quicker. Alistair deflected the blow with his shield, and stabbed at the monster's side, piercing flesh and bone through a gap in the armor. As the creature fell, another replaced it, and the skirmish continued.

All the while, Daveth's arrows soared over their heads, aimed at a line of genlock archers on a ridge ahead. Many found mud or skittered off armor plating, but some did find flesh. One by one, the enemy archers dropped, arrow shafts jutting from their necks and faces. They had done their damage, though- one darkspawn arrow unexpectedly fell from the sky and plunged into Derek's unprotected upper arm. He cried out as it hit him, and the family sword dropped from his hand. Ser Jory covered him, though, having killed a hurlock of his own and finding himself free to help his allies. As the snarling darkspawn raised its blade over Derek to deliver a killing blow, the knight swung his own sword, cleaving straight through its armor and across its chest. It howled in agony and died on its feet; the last of its platoon.

Hissing in pain, Derek gripped his wound tightly with his other hand, trying to impede the bleeding and keep the protruding arrow from moving around. It had passed right through his muscle, and come partially out the other side. Daveth, jogging over to join the melee fighters, hissed empathetically at the sight.

"You'll be alright, I think," he told Derek, gingerly reaching for the arrow. "Seen this a lot, I have. Back when they tried to teach me and some others how to properly use a bow. Some of the other fellows weren't too bright; didn't realize you weren't supposed to shoot at the target until the poor sod getting his arrows out of it was clear." The archer carefully snapped the shaft of the arrow at the fletching, and took the other end in his hand. "This'll hurt, mind you," he warned, and slowly began pulling the missile out. Derek squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the stinging, screaming pain as the wood slid through his arm. Alistair was checking his bag for more bandages, but he had used most of them on the dying soldier they had encountered.

"My pack," Derek instructed him concisely, still wincing. The arrow was out and the wound hurt a lot less, but it was still extremely painful. He barely noticed as their guide rifled through his pack and snatched up some of the medical supplies he had just bought. Expertly he applied a poultice to the wound, and wrapped it tightly. When he had finished, Derek tenderly tested his arm. It hurt, but he had a full range of motion.

"You'll be healed up in no time," Alistair reassured him as he began to search for his dropped weapons. He groaned when he found both his dagger and the family sword lying in the mud. If he resheathed them while they were filthy and wet like this, then they would rust. He would have to keep them out until he could wipe them clean.

Crisis averted, the junior Warden pulled a trio of vials from a pouch on his belt, and handed one to each recruit. "Go get your blood, then. Pick a brute, any brute."

"Can I pick _this_ brute?" Daveth joked, pointing his thumb at Ser Jory. "Did you _see_ him nearly chop that darkspawn in half? Because I did." But then he went over to the nearest dead hurlock and bent over the body, daintily pinching his nose with one hand and collecting some blood with the other. Derek shrugged, and followed suit. Jory did the same.

"Great. We still need to find those documents, though, if they're even here," Alistair reminded them, pressing them onward. The path ahead ran under a log that had fallen to form a bridge between twin steep hills on either side. What appeared to be a crude cage could be seen resting atop one of the hills. Strange shapes hung from the log, like butterfly cocoons but far larger. As they passed under, it was evident what they really were.

"Look there! Poor slobs," said Alistair, looking up at the dead men hanging from the logs by their necks. They were beginning to bloat and turn purple as their bodies decomposed. The dark, engorged flesh of their necks bulged around the constricting nooses. "That just seems so excessive." Derek couldn't help but shudder. He noticed that Ser Jory and Daveth seemed to share the sentiment. Neither was happy with the discovery. And yet they wordlessly moved along, passing more ruins and dead men, this time suspended from a set of soaring arches.

All of a sudden, a green ball of acidic energy shot through the air, blasting into Daveth and sending him reeling. The substance sizzled on his leather armor, marring the surface and letting off a noxious smoke. Alarmed, they tried to locate the source, only to realize that there was a hurlock with a staff standing in the distance, standing in the center of a rickety bridge.

"A darkspawn mage?" Derek exclaimed. He hadn't been aware that they could use magic. "Duncan didn't tell me about this!"

"Well, if it makes you feel better, he didn't tell me either," rejoined Alistair, using his shield to dissipate a second energy ball fired at them. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't kill it!"

Daveth hung his bow over his shoulder, choosing instead to draw a pair of small daggers from where they hung on his belt. "Mages are tricky to hit with arrows," he explained as they ran in. How he knew that, Derek wasn't sure, but he wasn't about to ask. At close quarters, they made short work of the mage, but then there was a noise behind them.

Spinning around, they saw a trio of genlock rogues sneaking towards them, poisoned daggers aloft. Ser Jory stepped forward, and swung his sword, taking out two with one swipe. The third hesitated, and Daveth darted at it like a viper with his blades, slicing its head clean off its shoulders. Shocked and impressed, the three others stared at the man, who only shrugged. "I only _prefer_ ranged attacks. That doesn't mean I'm useless with a sword," he said, giving Alistair a look that seemed to imply that he had heard him going on earlier about archers being weak and ineffective in a wrestling match. "Lets get going, then!" He was about to wander off of the bridge, but Derek grabbed him by the armor, holding him back.

"Traps," he said, pointing down. Hidden in the leaf litter and gravel were a dozen rusted bear traps, maybe placed by the darkspawn, or perhaps left by hunters long ago. Daveth laughed nervously.

"Ah, thanks. Should have seen those," the man said, and carefully danced through them, stretching to find safe footing. The others followed with less grace, and found themselves in the center of another massacre.

"They were missionaries," Ser Jory said, pointing at their Chantry robes. He seemed disturbed.

"Poor blighters. That's darkspawn, for you," Alistair stated bluntly, and forged through the carnage. They passed by several more clusters of dead mean and women; some wore the leather armor of scouts, and others robes, but all were thoroughly dead.

When they came upon a winding path heading up a slope nearly devoid of trees, the ex-templar spoke again. "We're nearly there, if what Duncan told me is right." Ahead they could see a largely intact ruin looming in the mist. "I sense some darkspawn ahead," he warned.

"I do too," muttered Derek, wrinkling his nose. They were downwind of the ruin, and the stench of rot and something not quite right was in the air. No sooner had he said it than a group of hurlocks wielding warhammers and swords appeared at the top of the hill, running quickly down at them. They dispatched them quickly, but not without harm; Ser Jory took a heavy blow to his chest plate, bruising him at best and breaking ribs at worst. Derek also found injury again when the edge of a blade strayed towards his hand and sliced a shallow line across the back of his fingers. It was a minor wound, but it made his fingers slip on the handle of his dagger. He almost lost the blade twice before the fight was won. Swiftly he wrapped it with a scrap of bandages left over from his other wound, and they finally climbed the hill to the ruin above.

The chest they were seeking was easily found; just inside the arched gate. However, it was also easy to see that something was very wrong with it. Drawing near, Derek realized the lid was shattered, the chest empty. He could hear Alistair swearing under his breath behind him.

"Well, well. What have we here?" A voice startled them from the higher level of the ruin. Heads snapped towards the noise, and Ser Jory held his greatsword at the ready. It was a woman, svelte and clad in strange (and revealing) clothes. A spray of iridescent feathers decorated one shoulder, and several pieces of jewelry were clasped around her elegant neck. Rather than let his eyes stray down to her barely-concealed breasts, Derek peered at her face. She was beautiful, for sure, but her eyes shone gold like a cat's, and there was a gnarled staff at her back. He didn't trust her. "Are you a vulture, I wonder?" She pondered as she descended to their level. "A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones are long since cleaned?" As she passed behind a pillar, Derek moved to regain sight of her, almost sure that if they blinked at the same time she would be gone. "Or merely an intruder," accused the woman when she reappeared, eyes narrowed at the men, "come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey? What say you, hm?" She asked brusquely, sauntering up to Derek. "Scavenger or intruder?"

"I am neither," he responded carefully, not quite understanding why _he_ was the one answering. "The Grey Wardens once owned this tower." She laughed mirthlessly, and glanced around the ruin.

"'Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse." She started moving again, walking a circle around them. "I have watched your progress for some time," said she. "'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?' And now you disturb ashes that none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

"Don't answer her," commanded Alistair suddenly. "She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby." He was thumbing the hilt of his sword anxiously and watching for movement outside the ruin. The woman sneered at him.

"Oh, you fear barbarians will swoop down upon you," she speculated, waving her hands in the air.

"Yes," Alistair countered quickly, "Swooping is _bad_."

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is!" Daveth interjected suddenly. "She'll turn us into toads!"

"'Witch of the Wilds?' Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?" She was not impressed. She turned those golden eyes back to Derek, who was uncomfortable with her scrutiny. "You there, handsome lad." Handome? "Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized." There was no danger in that question, so he felt free to answer it, erring on the side of caution and exercising his courtesy.

"I am Derek. A pleasure to meet you." This seemed to please her.

"Now that is a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan," she supplied. "Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

"'Here no longer?'" Alistair echoed accusingly. "You stole them, didn't you? You're… some kind of… sneaky…. Witch-thief!" He blundered, looking triumphant when he finished.

"How very eloquent," Morrigan shot back dryly. "How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems," replied the near-templar darkly. He pointed at her sternly. "Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

"I will not, for 'twas not _I_ who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened," the supposed witch declared, making a cutting motion with her hands. With Alistair getting nowhere, Derek decided it was time to step in and put some of the diplomacy his upbringing instilled in him to work.

"Then who removed them?"

"'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Can you take us to her?"

"_There_ is a sensible request." Morrigan smiled, a cunning curl of her lips that Derek did not trust in the least. "I like you."

"I'd be careful," Alistair advised him. "First it's, 'I like you…' but then 'Zap!" Frog time." Daveth seemed to agree.

"She'll put us all in the _pot_, she will. Just you watch." To everyone's surprise, it was Ser Jory who put an end to the nonsense.

"If the pot's warmer than this forest, it'd be a nice change," he proclaimed, crossing his arms. Alistair and Daveth fell silent.

"Follow me, then," Morrigan invited them, turning her back, "if it pleases you."

It was enough. They followed her on a weaving path through the forest, one they never would have been able to navigate on their own. It was as if the trees leaned aside for the young woman to pass. Daveth was grumbling something about how she was probably a sprite and would do them in once they were far enough away from the path. The others ignored him, and after a few minutes more of climbing through tangled vines and stooping under low-hanging branches, they emerged outside a derelict hut. Outside the front door an old woman stood, skeletal fingers clenched around her walking stick.

"Greetings, Mother," Morrigan said, taking her place at the woman's side and gesturing at the group men she had led there. "I bring before you four Grey Wardens who-"

"I see them, girl," the old woman spurned, and Morrigan fell silent. "Mmm," she grunted, eying them over. "Much as I expected." Alistair scoffed.

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?"

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe," the old woman lectured sharply. "Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide… either way, one's a fool!"

"She's a witch, I tell you!" Daveth started again, eyes wide. "We shouldn't be talking to her!" Jory cuffed him lightly upside the head.

"Quiet, Daveth! If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

"There is a smart lad," the old woman all but crooned. "Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will." Her deepset eyes turned on Derek, who had not yet spoken before her. "And what of you? Do you possess a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as the others do?"

"I believe you have something we need." Morrigan muttered to the woman out of the corner of her mouth.

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother."

"True," the crone conceded, "they came for their treaties, yes?" Alistair opened his mouth, probably to berate her, but she cut him off neatly. "And _before_ you behind barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these." From nowhere, it seemed, she showed them a small bundle of scrolls.

"You… oh," stuttered the junior Warden, surprised that she would do such a thing. "You protected them?"

"Any why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!" she instructed, as Alistair stepped forward and took the scrolls from her twisted hand.

"I'm sure they'll be eager to act on your advice," Derek told her sarcastically. Perhaps she was telling the truth, and perhaps she wanted to help them, but Duncan wasn't here and wouldn't see it. Why would he trust her word? The old woman didn't seem too bothered, however, as she cackled forebodingly.

"Well, I cannot be responsible for their doubts. I would go mad! Or am I already?" She laughed even more maniacally than before. Morrigan's cheeks, Derek noticed, had gone pink. She was embarrassed, it would appear. So she was human after all, under her strange mannerisms and fashion sense. Her mother's laughter finally subsided. "Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!"

"Time for you to go, then," Morrigan urged, apparently glad to be rid of them. The old woman scowled at her.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your _guests_."

"Oh, very well. I will show you out of the woods. Follow me."


	5. Blood Ritual

Morrigan left them at the gate. One moment she was with them, and the next she was vanished into the trees as abruptly as she had found them. Jaded to her trickery by then, the Warden and recruits didn't stop to marvel at her speed and stealth. Instead, they wandered weary back into camp. They had been in the cold, wet forest for hours. Derek yearned for nothing more than a quick wash and a full night's sleep, but he knew they would have to wait. First, they would have to go through the Joining, whatever it turned out to be.

Duncan seemed relieved when they all returned in one piece, perhaps a little battered from the journey but otherwise unharmed. "So you return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?"

"We have." When Derek said this, Alistair handed the Warden-commander the scrolls that the old crone at the shack had given them.

"Good," the older man said, glad to have the documents back in Warden hands. "I've had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you've retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately."

"Maybe we should tell you about Morrigan and her mother," mentioned the recruited noble. Alistair took over for him.

"There was a woman at the tower and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very… odd."

"Were they wilder folk?" Alistair shook his head slowly.

"I don't think so. They might be apostates: mages hiding from the Chantry."

"I know you were once a templar, Alistair," Duncan told him firmly, "but Chantry business is not ours. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining." Derek frowned when his superior said that. He didn't think it wise, that the Warden would ignore a woman who knew far too much about his order. But, who was he to tell Duncan that? Besides, he owed him nothing, not until he could be sure the man was innocent of plotting with Howe. Mood fouled, he caught Duncan's eye.

"I am ready."

"Excellent. You will need that courage to face what comes next."

"Courage?" questioned Daveth, growing antsy once again. He was clenching and unclenching his fists nervously. "How much danger are we in?" Duncan regarded the archer gravely.

"I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later." So it might be deadly. It mattered not. Everything good in Derek's life had already been stolen away from him, leaving only a gaping emptiness and a brother that would soon hate him. To die now was to lose nothing at all.

"I have no problem facing what is to come."

"I agree," Ser Jory concurred. "Let's have it done." Duncan glanced between the three recruits one last time, and something like regret passed over his face, visible for only a fraction of a second before it was gone.

"Then let us begin. Alistair-" The templar had been standing in the background, solemnly staring at the ground, but he snapped out of it when called by name. "Take them to the old temple." The junior Warden complied, and led the recruits across camp to the place Derek had first met him. There they waited for Duncan, Derek finally wiping his weapons clean with a rag pilfered from camp.

"The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it," Ser Jory said, brows knitted together.

"Are you blubbering _again_?" asked Daveth in disbelief, fed up with the man. Frustrated and worried, Jory sighed, and threw up his hands.

"Why all these damn _tests_? Have I not earned my place?"

"Maybe it's tradition," Daveth bickered. "Maybe they're just trying to annoy you."

"Stop _yammering_," Derek finally groaned, sheathing the family sword and starting on the dagger. The two of him were beginning to get on his nerves with their constant arguing. "You're giving me a headache." And they were; there was a pounding pressure growing behind his eyes. He wasn't sure if it was exhaustion, illness, or stress bringing it on, or perhaps some combination of the three. It didn't stop the knight, however.

"I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me… it just doesn't seem fair." The young noble pinched the bridge of his nose, turning away from them both as they went on with their argument.

"Would you have come if they'd warned you? Maybe that's why they don't. The Wardens do what they must, right?"

"Including _sacrificing_ us?" Ser Jory cried, disgusted.

"I'd sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight!"

"_Would you both shut up?_" snarled Derek, running both hands over his eyes and back through his hair. Something didn't feel right here at all. He was reminded of Highever, and Howe's treason, and the gnawing dread in his stomach. Here it returned. Something was off, and their fighting wasn't helping.

"Yeah, ser knight, try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts," Daveth quipped, trying to get the last word in.

"I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade," Ser Jory admitted meekly, trying to explain away his fear. He hushed up when Duncan appeared in the darkness.

"At last we come to the Joining," the man said, looking and sounding older than he ever had before. He did not look forward to this, that much was certain. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint."

"We're… going to drink the blood of those… those creatures?" Jory stammered, a cold sweat running down his face.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory," explained Duncan.

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint," Alistair mentioned quietly, reminding them all of his presence. "We can sense it in the darkspawn and use it to slay the archdemon." At hearing 'those who survive,' Daveth and Jory both paled visibly. Derek only bowed his head, eyes closed. A strange calm had come over him, drowning the dread in his heart. It wouldn't be so awful, to die now.

"Let's get on with it, then." If death was coming for him tonight, then there was no reason to delay it. He supposed that if he died, Duncan would tell Fergus of what had happened, and Byron would find a home with the kennel master after the battle… And with any luck, he would find his family again in the Fade- if the Fade was indeed where the souls of the dead went.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?" The templar, who had been standing pensive in the shadows, stepped forward.

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten and that one day we shall join you." As Alistair finished, Duncan took a large silver chalice from a table set up in the ruin.

"Daveth, step forward." The recruit swallowed his fear, and stepped up to Duncan, taking the chalice. He paused for a moment, and then lifted it to his lips, drinking the black blood from it. Duncan took the chalice back. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then the man cried out, bending forward and clawing at his head. Without warning his head snapped back, his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he gargled in misery.

"Maker's breath!" Ser Jory spat, and backed away from the man as his hands moved down to his throat. As quickly as it had started, it ended, as Daveth fell lifeless to the ground. Alistair exhaled, head bowed and eyes closed. Derek stared, stunned. He hadn't realized it would be so violent. He should have known, though, he should have known…

"I am sorry, Daveth," Duncan told the corpse, and turned to the terrified knight. "Step forward, Jory."

"But… I have a wife. A child! Had I know…" the man rambled wildly as he backed into a pillar. Duncan slowly approached him with the chalice, and in response, he drew his sword. It shook in his hand.

"There is no turning back," Duncan warned, offering him the goblet.

"No! You ask too much! _There is no glory in this!_" the man wailed, and Duncan put the chalice back onto the table, reaching instead for his knife. Derek saw, and turned away, holding his brow with one hand. His own death, he could face, but he hated to see others murdered. He heard a clang of metal, and then the sound of a blade running through flesh. He flinched away further at the sound of something wet splattering onto the stone floor.

"I am sorry," Duncan repeated. "But the Joining is not yet complete." Derek slowly looked over his shoulder. Duncan stood there with the chalice, for him. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good," the man said, pressed the cup into the only remaining recruit's numb hands. To death, then, and to the end of this nightmare- a toast, then. He lifted the cup to his lips, and let the dark liquid seep into his mouth. It burned where it touched, like a strong whiskey, but it tasted of rotten meat, and copper, and grime. He gagged on it, his headache flaring to epic proportions. He felt someone take the chalice from him before he dropped it, freeing him to hold his head in his hands, trying to keep it in one piece.

"From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden," a distant voice said, but then it- and everything else- was gone, replaced only by an agony he could never have imagined. In his mind's eye he had flashing visions of something dark, something bad. Something that _wanted_ him to suffer, _wanted _this for him. He heard a screaming roar, and the thing became visible. It was hideous, covered in spikes. Beady green eyes stared at him from a thorny skull. It knew him in that instant, and he knew it. He knew how small he was, how weak and insignificant in comparison to this huge malevolent intelligence. His spirit felt raped by its overwhelming aura. It snarled and snapped at him, and-

-was replaced by a pair of familiar faces, leaning over him in concern. The closer was that of Duncan, fingers at his throat, feeling for a pulse. Over him hovered Alistair, who seemed haunted by all that had transpired.

"It is finished," Duncan said. Whether he was speaking to Derek or to himself, the initiate did not know or care. He was scared and spent. He had lived when he didn't necessarily desire to.

"Two more deaths," he heard Alistair say hollowly. "In _my_ Joining, only one of us died…" Derek didn't listen to the rest. He was content to just lie on the ground in the cold, and wait for death to come to him. His body was weak and sore; surely if he neglected it long enough he would be free of it. How long would it take to die of thirst? Three days? A week? Or maybe the darkspawn would win the battle tomorrow, and slit his throat where he lay. It did not matter.

Against his will and before he could stop them, he found himself being pulled upright. Apparently Alistair and Duncan had realized he didn't intend to move on his own.

"Up you go," Duncan urged, grasping his shoulder to keep him sitting up. Blearily, Derek opened his eyes, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

"How do you feel?" The old man asked, concerned.

"I thought…" Derek whispered into his kneepads, the horror of his waking dreams slowly fading into memory and leaving him more fatigued than even before. Dozens of thoughts raced through his head, too quickly to be recognized but lingering just long enough to make him feel confused and queasy.

"Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my Joining." Derek did not respond, only slowly looked up to stare dully at Alistair's face. He looked a lot like King Cailan. Acted a lot like him too. Oblivious fool. He about let his eyes shut again when Duncan squeezed his shoulder.

"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come." He then grabbed Derek from under his arms and easily lifted him up onto his feet as if he knew the young man wouldn't if left to his own devices. Too despondent to fight it, Derek wobbled, and stood on his own. Alistair glanced at him, a little confused by his odd behavior, but then seemed to realize something and walked away from the newest Warden. He returned a moment later with something in his hand.

"Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining. We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us… of those who didn't make it this far." His eyes wandered past Derek and rested on the two dead men they had leaned against the wall while the only living recruit was unconscious.

"Take some time," Duncan told him as Alistair handed him the pendant. "When you are ready, I'd like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king."

"Very well," Derek responded automatically, hearing but not exactly listening. Sensing that was the case, Duncan addressed him again, resting a hand on his shoulder to keep his attention.

"The meeting is to the west, down the stairs. Please attend as soon as you are able."

The moment Duncan was gone, with Alistair following close behind, Derek sat back down, the metal studs and buckles in his armor rasping against the stone. There was a whimper, and the feel of warm fur against his shoulder.

"I didn't want this, Byron," Derek whispered, looking at the pendant in his hand. It was a simple glass vial, stopped with a small cork and tied to a length of cord- nothing extravagant. Inside swirled a few drops of dark blood, clinging the glass as it washed over its side and leaving a reddish residue behind. "I didn't want any of this." The mabari licked at his master's face plaintively. It bothered the hound, seeing his human this way. Something had broken in him. "Why didn't I die?" He asked the dog, seeing Jory and Daveth leaned precariously against each other nearby. "What did I do wrong? I have nothing left to live for, so this is no gift. It can only be punishment, then. Is it because I failed to protect my family?" Byron whined. "They're dead because of my… my _weakness_." He sat there with his dog for several minutes, leaning against the beast for warmth and stability.

"Maybe the Maker wants me to make up for my shortcomings," he hypothesized after a while. "Maybe I'm supposed to be a Grey Warden. To fix things. Help people." Byron woofed, perhaps in agreement, or maybe because he was just glad to hear his master speaking of a future for himself. Then he nudged him with his nose. Duncan and the King had no doubt been waiting some time.

"Alright, then," Derek resigned, using the dog as a support to stand up again. "I will play this game. I'll help Duncan end this Blight. Perhaps then I can rest." Excited by the change in pace, Byron pushed the Cousland forward, across the hall to where the king and his advisers were planning the battle. Slowly he approached, too exhausted to hurry. It seemed the king and another man were in the middle of an argument when he finally arrived.

"Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault," the king said firmly. So that was the famed Teyrn Loghain, then. Although his family had ranked equally with the man, he had never met him personally. All he knew was what his father and Aldous had told him- that he was a war hero, a tactical genius, and had been King Maric's closest friend. For all the glory attached to his name, he appeared an unpleasant, sour looking man.

"You risk too much, Cailan. The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines," Loghain rebuked. Derek found himself agreeing with the teyrn, although he was very surprised that he could speak so rudely to the king without reprimand. However, he _was_ Cailan's father-in-law. Perhaps the familial bond gave him that leeway.

"If that's the case," Cailan sang, "perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all." This only made Loghain's scowl deepen.

"I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!" So he held grudges. Aldous had told him that the war with Orlais had been a bad one, but still he was surprised that Loghain was still sore with them, after all these years. He supposed, however, that in twenty years time, he also would still loath Arl Howe, and revoked his earlier opinion immediately.

"It is not a 'fool notion.' Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past… and you will remember who is king." So Cailan could bite, after all.

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!"

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Cailan all but yelled at Loghain's back, and then turned to Duncan for support. "Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty."

The king seemed to realize that another had joined his group, as he was now facing the young Warden. Derek blinked, hoping that Cailan had not said anything to him while his thoughts had been wandering.

"And this is the young lord from Highever I met earlier? I understand congratulations are in order," Cailan said, altogether too cheerful. Derek continued to stare flatly at him.

"I don't feel that special."

"Oh, but you are. Every Grey Warden is needed now more than ever," the king declared. Loghain made a face behind him.

"You fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality."

"Fine. Speak your strategy," permitted Cailan unpleasantly, placing his hands on a map placed on the table they were gathered around. "They Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?" Loghain joined him, leaning over the blueprints like a vulture.

"You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover," he reminded the king.

"To flank the darkspawn, I remember. This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light this beacon?" Teyrn Loghain pushed off the table.

"I have a few men stationed there. It's not a dangerous task, but it is vital."

"Then we should send our best," reasoned Cailan seriously, pouring over the parchment. "Send Alistair and the new Grey Warden to make sure it's done." He glanced expectantly at Duncan and Derek, both equally surprised by the order.

"I'll do my best, your Majesty," Derek said when he found the words.

"You rely on these Grey Wardens too much," objected the queen's father, unhappy with the arrangements. "Is that truly wise?"

"Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain!" the king snapped, in a rare bout of anger. "Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from."

"Your Majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing," Duncan suggested then, but Loghain answered first.

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds."

"Isn't that what your men are here for, Duncan?" the king asked a split second later. Duncan tripped over his words for a second, but then gave in.

"I… yes, your Majesty."

"Your Majesty," interrupted a man Derek had barely noticed before, "the tower and its beacon are unnecessary. The Circle of Magi-"

"We will _not_ trust any lives to your spells, mage. Save them for the darkspawn!" a familiar voice scolded, and the revered mother who he had seen preaching to the Templars stepped forward. He hadn't realized she was so important as to be invited to the king's strategy council- what input could a woman devoted to the Chant of Light lend to a strategy meeting? Then again, he didn't think _he_ was very important, either, yet here he stood.

"Enough!" barked Loghain, sounding very much like a disgruntled mabari. "This plan will suffice. The Grey Wardens will light the beacon." The king's face lit up.

"Thank you, Loghain. I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Grey Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!" he said to himself, waving his hand in the air as if trying to imagine how the story might be told in years to come.

"Yes, Cailan. A glorious moment for us all." He wasn't sure, and he may have been the only one, but Derek thought he detected cynicism in the statement. Cailan certainly did not hear anything out of the ordinary, since he then dismissed the group.

"Sleep well, friends. Tomorrow we ride to our victory!" Quickly the small crowd thinned, as the tired officials gladly hurried off to bed. Derek stayed behind, watching Duncan. He needed to put an end to the uncertainty he felt, and now could be his last chance. Before the Warden-commander could slip away, Derek called out his name.

"Duncan. We need to talk." Stifling a yawn, the man looked back at the new junior Warden. Derek regarded him coolly, green eyes glowing in the torchlight.

"I'm sure it can wait until morning, at least," Duncan told him and started to leave again, but Derek stopped him again.

"No. It can't." There was a sharpness to the statement that gave Duncan pause. Derek sounded… well, wary at best, and hostile at worst. He sighed. Derek was a smart lad, but intelligence often degraded to paranoia in stressful situations. He supposed he should have been expecting this, but after a week of silence, he had assumed it wouldn't come up. Clearly he was wrong.

"Very well, then. What is it you wish to talk about?"

"I don't trust you, Duncan." Well, the boy didn't beat around bushes; he gave him that. But after seeing how diplomatic he had been to everyone he spoke with until now, this newfound brevity concerned him. He had already killed one recruit today. If Derek drew arms, he would be forced to repeat the experience.

"You don't trust me… because I arrived a stranger at your home, the day before your family was murdered." The Cousland clenched his jaw. "You think I work with Arl Howe."

"I think nothing," Derek corrected him quietly. "Tell me the truth, Duncan. Were you involved?"

"Only to the extent of trying to salvage what remained of your family."

"You mean to tell me that it was coincidence? Serendipity that led you and Howe to arrive at our castle together? It was happenstance that you left with the recruit you preferred, and Howe won the teyrnir?" He held his balled fists before him for a second before slamming them down onto the table that Cailan and Loghain had left only minutes before. "No. I cannot trust you. Not when you've 'saved' so many recruits before. Once would not be so surprising, but three times?"

"I don't understand," Duncan told him honestly, trying to decode Derek's words. The bereft man glared at him accusingly.

"Alistair says he owes you a lot. The way he fawns over you, it's obvious you did him some great 'kindness.' And then there was Daveth, who had 'nowhere else to go' after what you 'saved' him from. And me- tell me, Duncan, is it chance that you and tragedy seem to walk hand in hand?" Duncan sighed heavily, and leaned on the table, feeling his years.

"Tragedy is everywhere. When the opportunity presents itself to me to rescue some poor soul from their fate, I do it. I had no part in what befell Alistair, or Daveth, or your family. All I did was try to save the three of you from it. Clearly," Duncan said, forlornly gazing at the Cousland and seeing only his anguish, "I have failed. I intended to bring mercy, not more suffering. I apologize."

"Mercy," Derek repeated, the word sounding strange as it rolled off his tongue. Could he accept that Duncan was being honest? That his rescue had been kindness on Duncan's part, and not guile? He had barely given the thought any credence before now, but Duncan looked and sounded as utterly weary as he felt. He did not think he was lying. "Mercy…" He sat down on the edge of the table. A hoarse laugh escaped his throat. "It may have been more merciful to leave me to die with my family. I suppose I can never have a family of my own, now," Derek reflected aloud, quiet but angry. "Nor own land. I am less than a serf."

"No," Duncan told him at long last. "You are more than the greatest King."

"Yet another role I do not wish to fill." Derek slid off the table, and stalked past Duncan into the camp. "Good night, Warden-Commander."

He stalked quickly across camp, firmly hoping Duncan would have the good sense to _leave him alone_. When he arrived back at the Grey Warden tent, he found it rumbling with the snores of the score of Wardens within. He ducked inside to grab his new supplies, stepping carefully over sleeping men and elves to find them. Tired or not, he still had to maintain his weapons. His armor, he decided once he was outside and bathed in the moon's glow, could just be rinsed off when he washed himself.

Derek moved off from the tent a ways, out of courtesy to those sleeping (whetting a blade could be a loud affair) and a need to be alone. Duncan would surely be returning once he had given Derek time to either go to bed or leave the area. He probably wanted to avoid the Cousland as much as he wanted to avoid his commanding officer.

He decided to sharpen his weapons up on the landing where the group of soldiers with the darkspawn had been. They had since disposed of it, he noticed, probably throwing it out the huge paneless windows in the back wall, which he was now approaching. There had been lit an impressive bonfire in the center of a raised stone platform, there. It gave him perfect light for the task at hand, so he sat down on a fallen column and set to work sharpening and oiling his blades. A few times he noticed soldiers at nearby campfires whispering and pointing at him, but he only ground his teeth and ignored them.

For the thousandth time, Derek found himself glad that his parents had understood the importance of raising their children to be able to survive in the wild. Most of the other nobles he had met seemed incapable of the simplest of endeavors; on a hunt with his cousin Arl Bryland two years back, he had discovered that the man did not know how to dress a kill, and always left it to his servants. Through conversation with others, he found that he was among the few to not only know how to wield a blade, but also to maintain it and his armor. And his armor! The teyrna had always told him that if one could not put one armor oneself, then it was useless. That was why the entire Cousland family seemed to prefer lighter armors. Fergus wore the heaviest, silverite splintmail, but even he could get it on by himself. And of course, both of the teyrn's sons knew how to tend to their armor and make it last.

Perhaps it would not matter in more peaceful times… but Ferelden was at war. Any other noble in Derek's place, Fergus excluded, would be facing the battle with a dull blade and weak armor. Not that Derek expected to see the fighting closer than from the top of the Tower of Ishal, but Oriana… Oriana had always told them about the nobles of Antiva. Those who did not keep their blades sharp and ever at hand would one day 'wake up' dead. She had been speaking literally, of course, but Derek had taken it to heart. He would take no chances and make no assumptions of the events that would take place tomorrow.

When he had put a razor edge to both of his weapons, Derek sheathed them and went out in search of a well, or some sort of spring. Every castle had one, and Ostagar was once a fortress of sorts- that much was clear. And how would an entire army survive here for weeks at a time otherwise? After a few minutes of walking and searching, he discovered a small well not far from the King's tent. Slow with fatigue, he unbuckled the strap holding his sword and dagger and placed it to the side, and began peeling off armor. When he was in only his shirt and pantaloons, and his leather armor was piled in a neat (if rank) stack by his weapons, he pulled a bucket of water up from the well and emptied it over his head, shivering against the cold but glad to scrub the worst of the grime off. After two more buckets, he felt much cleaner, but still not himself. The quartermaster hadn't had any spare shaving kits, and he had been hoping to shave off the week's growth… Alas, it would have to wait until he was back in civilization. Assuming he ever _did_ return to civilization. Even if he survived the coming day, he didn't know what Duncan had planned for him. He grimaced at the thought, picking up his belongings and trekking barefoot back to the tent. He didn't like belonging to another man.

When he finally arrived back, he saw that Duncan was still awake, sitting pensively by the still-burning fire. They glanced at each other, but no words were spoken as Derek passed sullenly by and entered the tent. Spotting a gap in the tangle of men, he spread out his bedroll. He was asleep almost the moment he closed his eyes, but not lost in the dreamless sleep he had longed for. Before he knew it, he was lost in the Fade, surrounded by the angry roars of the archdemon Urthemial. He had not been expecting it, of course, but he should have been. After all, he was a Warden, now.

The nightmares lasted until morning.


	6. Race to Ishal

_a/n: This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, but the next one is extra long to make up for it, I promise. It's just how the plot fell, I'm afraid._

ooooooooo

He was awoken by a toe jabbed roughly into his ribs.

"_Gah_, Andraste's holy bleeding _knickers_!" Bellowed a voice above him. Derek groaned and rolled over to see a very large man bouncing around one foot, and clutching the other in his hands. "Greenhorn's got ribs of _steel_, he does! Think he broke my bloody toe," the man added in a whine. The other Wardens were stirring then, some moaning for the others to shut up and let them sleep until the damned darkspawn were out, others climbing reluctantly out of their bedrolls to prepare for the imminent battle.

"Quit your bellying, Folstaf," snapped the dark-haired elf Derek had observed the night before. He was mostly dressed, and was in the process of lacing one of his boots. When Folstaf started cursing at the elf instead, he threw his other boot at the man, knocking him over. He crashed down onto yet another Warden, who also began to sputter and swear.

"But I don't _want_ to braid Cailan's hair, he _bit_ me!" shouted Alistair groggily without warning, jolting upright in his bedroll. There was a silence before his comrades began to bellow with laughter. Derek couldn't help but join in. Alistair turned red, and excused himself from the tent, muttering something about breakfast. Derek tugged on his armor and soon followed after, still sporting a small smile. He saw Alistair grumpily chewing on an apple by the ashes of the bonfire.

"I wasn't aware that the king knew you so well as to let you braid his hair," Derek said to him as he got closer. "Or, for that matter, to be comfortable with biting you." Alistair turned completely red.

"I was a stable boy before I went to the Chantry," he grumbled. "and Cailan was a horse. Named after _the _Cailan, naturally. He was a big, nasty destrier. The stablemaster didn't like me all that much and always made me tend to him. And every time I had to plait the bloody thing's mane and tail for a parade or a hunt, he bit me." Alistair pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, showing a ragged semicircular scar on his shoulder, close to his neck. Derek winced as he took an apple of his own out of a small basket next to them. He had been nipped by horses before, but they'd never broken skin.

"Ouch."

"Indeed," Alistair agreed sourly, and took another bite of the fruit in his hand. More Wardens were emerging from the tent, now, saying brief 'hello's as they pulled on tunics and helped each other with their armor.

"Whatever happened to him?"

"The horse, or the stablemaster? I don't rightly know either way," the sandy blonde answered, as they both watched the camp come to life. "I left… oh, half a year after that." Derek said nothing, but looked up to regard the sky.

"Looks like rain."

"It'll be sodding _fun_ on the battlefield," the templar growled. Not in the best of moods, then. He wouldn't be happy to hear the news that they weren't actually going to see action, then…

"About that," Derek started, as the first raindrops began to fall. He did not finish his thought, however, as a very pissed off berserker chose that very moment to burst out of the tent.

"_Which one of you sorry louts buggered off with my amulet?_" the man roared, black-bearded face turning red with fury. "I had it yesterday afternoon and put it with my pack in the tent, and _now it's gone_!"

"Er," Alistair wavered, one finger held in the air. The warrior glared at him. "What did this amulet look like, again? Gold with a rune inlay?"

"_You_ stole it, _didn't_ you?" he bellowed, stomping up to him. Both he and Derek took a large step back.

"Um, no. I found an amulet on- with Daveth's things," he explained, wincing when he mentioned the dead archer.

"Oh, I will _kill_ that thief," the berserker rumbled. "I'll squish his puny little-"

"That won't be necessary," Alistair said quietly, and the berserker froze, comprehending. All the Wardens in the vicinity paused in what they were doing for a second before they remembered themselves. "I have your amulet with my pack." He went back into the tent, the cooled off berserker in tow, and emerged a minute later.

"That was Brock," he said simply. "Nice enough bloke… if you keep your hands to yourself. Daveth was stealing from the camp the entire time he was here, I think," Alistair confided quietly. "He had an awful lot of gold in his pack for a man who came with none."

"And who is that?" Derek asked about the elf, who was chatting with one of their comrades several yards away, both mimicking pulling back a bowstring. "I've never seen anyone fletch an arrow like he does." Derek had watched him for a minute the night before, and had noticed that he arranged the feathers in a very loose, angled S curve on the shaft.

"Oh, Roth. He's originally from the Alienage, but rumor has it he lived with the Dalish for a time. Probably where he got to be such a good archer."

Alistair spent the next several minutes pointing out various passing Wardens and telling Derek a little about each of them. There was Sildred from the Bannorn, who was very skilled with a dagger, but specialized in laying and disarming traps. Farther along was Henry, who didn't talk much but was killer at cards ("Oh, he likes to cleave heads off darkspawn as much as the next person, but he's got a gift for Alouette."), and Stodge, a pleasant enough ranger who had apparently spent his pre-Warden years hunting bereskarn and giant spiders for profit. After a while, Derek stopped him.

"There are no mages?"

"No," Alistair told him, unbothered. "Why?"

"I just think having a mage around might be useful. Healing magic and whatnot." Alistair grunted, and began to walk away, saying something about putting his tin shell on. _He really seems to dislike mages_, Derek thought to himself as he watched Alistair vanish back into their tent. _Maybe it was his templar training._

Derek spent the next few hours helping prepare for the battle. He assisted some soldiers in moving wooden poles to build field defenses with, for a while, and then he was sent by a senior Warden to retrieve medical supplies for their group. All the while he hoped to hear news of the Lord from Highever returning from the Wilds, but after asking around, he learned there was nothing to tell. Fergus was still missing, as far as anybody knew. Dejected, he did a dozen other minor tasks in the pouring rain before the camp began to grow solemn and quiet. Duncan called him and Alistair over, then, in front of the rebuilt bonfire.

"The battle will begin soon," Duncan told the two newest Wardens. "You both have a very important part to play. You heard the plan," he said, resolutely meeting Derek's eyes. Things were still awkward between them. "You and Alistair will go to the tower and ensure the beacon is lit."

"What? I won't be in the battle?" Alistair asked, outraged by this development, as Derek had expected.

"This is by the king's personal request, Alistair. If the beacon is not lit, Teyrn Loghain's men won't know when to charge." Duncan explained it in his best, rational voice, but neither of them were convinced.

"So he needs two Grey Wardens standing up there holding the torch. Just in case, right?" He sounded angry with the illogical plan. This was good; Maybe Alistair would come to realize that Duncan was not worth his idolization.

"I agree with Alistair. We should be in the battle." _Not that I object to the easier job, but we both know you need every Warden you have on that battlefield, Duncan. _

"That is not your choice," the Warden-Commander asserted, a hard glint in his eyes as he stared at Derek. He didn't want to hurt the boy or make things more tense between them, but he was making the situation more difficult than it had to be. "If King Cailan wishes Grey Wardens to ensure the beacon is lit, then Grey Wardens will be there. We must do whatever it takes to destroy the darkspawn... exciting or no."

"I get it, I get it," Alistair pledged indignantly. "Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line. Darkspawn or no."

"I don't know," Derek deadpanned. "That could be a great distraction." As he had hoped, a reluctant grin crept onto his brother-at-arms' face.

"Me shimmying down the darkspawn line? Sure, we could kill them while they roll around laughing." Alistair chuckled, but Duncan sighed deeply. A small, bitter smile appeared on Derek's face. Maybe he no longer suspected Duncan of consorting with Howe, but he was still angry with the man for forcing him to join the Wardens. His heartfelt, exasperated sigh was like the most beautiful music to his ears, and he could see that Duncan realized that, since he stared sternly at his new charge while he continued to give them their mission.

"The tower is on the other side of the gorge from the king's camp, the way we came when we arrived. You'll need to cross the gorge and head through the gate and up to the tower entrance. From the top, you'll overlook the entire valley."

"Sounds easy enough."

"We will signal you when the time is right. Alistair will know what to look for."

"I know what I have to do."

"Then I must go join the others," Duncan told them, looking over his shoulder at the armed and armored Wardens amassing there. "From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are _both_ Grey Wardens." He looked long and hard at Derek, who stared levelly back. "I expect you to be worthy of that title."

"Duncan…" Alistair was fidgeting slightly, all the joking forgotten. He looked up at his mentor, wrought with worry. "May the Maker watch over you."

Oh, no. Oh _no. No no no n-_

"May He watch over us all." Duncan said it. Derek felt suddenly ill. His fearless leader must have seen it, since he paused as he was turning away.

"What's wrong?" Alistair was asking. Derek squeezed his eyes shut, thinking pleasant thoughts. Winning at Ostagar, the archdemon dropping dead of a heart attack, Fergus appearing with Howe's head on a platter and-

"Derek!" He opened his eyes when a hand seized shoulder and shook it. The orphaned noble shoved Duncan's hand away.

"Let go of me," he growled, stalking off in the direction of the tower. Alistair glanced between Duncan, standing concerned at the fire, and Derek, who was quickly receding into the crowds of soldiers making their way to the battlefield.

"Well, go after him," Duncan urged Alistair, troubled. Something was wrong with that boy. _Had_ been wrong with him, ever since he had pried him away from the dying teyrn. There was nothing he could do about it, but on the day of the battle, and with such a huge responsibility left in the junior Warden's hands… Well, at least Alistair was with him. He wasn't as perceptive as Derek, maybe, but he had a good heart. He also didn't question his orders, and he always saw them through.

Trying not to let his apprehension show, Duncan turned to face his remaining small force, and began to rally them together and discuss their strategy.

oooooooooo

"What was that about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't really want to talk about it, Alistair." Alistair had caught up to Derek, and Byron was trailing behind him, probably having just been let out of the kennel where he had stayed for the night. His fur was streaked with brown kaddis. Warpaint of the Wolfhound, the kennel master had called that particular mix of kaddis and herbs when he had purchased it and applied it to himself and his dog earlier that morning. "What's the signal we're to look out for?"

"Oh. Duncan has these small devices from Orzammar that the dwarves made. When you light them- you have to set this string hanging from it on fire- they let out colored smoke instead of exploding like most of the other contraptions he brought back. I don't know how the dwarves do it, but it works."

"Colored smoke," Derek noted to himself, and there was a sudden roar of an army charging through the gorge.

"Battle's starting without us," Alistair breathed, and broke into a run, Derek close behind. "Let's cross the bridge and get to the Tower of Ishal!" Together they bolted out onto the bridge. There were archers positioned there, but the darkspawn- there were so _many_ of them- seemed to have siege engines. A group of boulders, apparently launched from enemy trebuchets, pelted the bridge, crushing men on impact and taking large portions of the infrastructure with it.

"Hurry, _now,_" Derek said, and began to sprint across the bridge behind the archers. The quicker they made it across, the less danger they were in. As he ran, a rock the size of a mabari flew in front of him. He ignored the close miss and kept running, finally arriving safely on the other side of the bridge. Alistair and Byron were close behind him as he made haste towards the tower. He slowed down and halted as half a dozen guards and a single mage evacuated the huge construct in a panic. One of the guards saw them, and hurried over.

"You… you're Grey Wardens, aren't you? The tower- it's been taken!" The terrified guard stank of ammonia and blood, giving Derek unpleasant flashbacks to the events of one week prior, when a servant had come into his room bearing a similar message…

"What are you talking about, man?" Alistair questioned him insistently. "Taken how?"

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!" Derek exchanged quick glances with Alistair, and peered up at the tower. He could see dark shaped moving through the arrow slits, but nothing else.

"Then we have to get to the beacon and light it ourselves!" concluded Alistair, jaw set with determination. The guard nodded at him, and fled without another word. Derek watched him go, scowling, and turned to the mage that had stayed behind.

"I'm going with you, sers," he told them, his knuckles white and bloodless from clenching his staff so tightly. "The tower _must_ be cleared, and the beacon lit. I will help you how I can."

"Good man!" Derek praised him briefly, and they set off through the tower gate. They were set upon immediately by a mixed group of hurlock and genlock melee fighters. Between the four of them- dog included- they easily dispatched the main group with a combination of freezing spells, sword blows, and bites, leaving a few to scatter and take to elevated watch posts Loghain had had built. They pursued the stragglers, pushing one off the edge of one construct to fall to his death, and gutting the other with a deft slice of Alistair's sword.

They pressed onward, arriving at the next group of darkspawn in time to rescue the lone guard that had stayed to fight them. More hurlocks fell, and they ran up a short flight of stairs to kill the genlock archers lurking there.

They were staved off by a massive hurlock in superior armor, however. Letting Byron and the mage take the archers, the two bladesmen faced the hurlock in battle.

"An Alpha!" Alistair cried out, trying to slash at its throat and missing. As it raised its huge axe, Derek resorted to an old favorite trick, and flung mud at its face, finally grateful for the freezing rain. It squealed like a stuck pig and swung its axe blindly, unable to see Alistair positioning himself for the killing blow. Before it could clear the grime from its eyes, its head was severed from its body. Behind them, all the genlocks lay dead, frozen by the Circle mage and shattered by Byron's brute strength.

"To the Tower," Alistair said, shaking water from his face as he pointed to the front door, flanked by huge Tevinter statues. Derek nodded, and the four of them jogged up the stairs and to the door.

"Steel yourselves," Derek warned as he rested his hand on the door handle. After a moment, he pushed it inward, swinging it on its creaking hinges. The inside of the tower was ransacked entirely. Dead guards were strewn about, and the darkspawn had already placed some heads on pikes by the door. Cautiously, the party ventured inward, well aware of the tight schedule they were on. They had to be at the top of the tower within the hour…

Spurred onward by the waning time limit, Derek led them inward. There was a winding passage in the central room, created by spiky barriers lined up in rows. When they were two steps through the door, they all lit on fire. The darkspawn knew they were here. Spotting a tripline ahead, Derek rushed ahead of his group to disarm it as the darkspawn appeared from their hiding places. A mage- an emissary, he had heard Stodge call it while he was back at camp- appeared, along with several archers. Their own mage scowled, and wielded his staff angrily against the disgusting creature, alternately freezing and burning it while the emissary shot balls of toxin back at him. Before they could hit him, he slammed the end of his staff to the floor, and a milky white cylinder of energy shot up around him and absorbed the attacks, fading but not disappearing once they had been devoured. It did not impede his own assault; he easily volleyed several fireballs in quick succession at the enemy. With the last one, the emissary croaked, and flopped onto its front, looking much worse for the wear.

In the meantime, the rest of the group had slain the archers. Derek found that if he skewered them through the chest with the dagger, they could do nothing to escape a fatal sweep of the family sword across their throats. Byron did as he always had, and tore at them with his teeth, letting the foul black blood drip unswallowed to the floor. Alistair had killed two archers on his own, breaking one's thick neck with a shield blow to the face, and severing the other's brachial artery. It bled out within thirty second, during which time they passed through a series of connected rooms in search of the stairs that led above. In the process they passed what seemed to be a cave in to an underground passage. That was probably where they had come in, both Wardens realized, and they fought off another small bunch of darkspawn. Passing through the next door, in a room filled with even more dead men and blood, they discovered the stairs at last, relatively unguarded.

"What is your name, ser mage?" Derek asked as they rushed up the steps, slaughtering the few darkspawn they encountered. The mage was following, and casting weakness spells over their shoulders.

"Warren, ser," puffed the young mage. "Warren Suthers." He nearly tripped over one of the darkspawn corpses sent rolling down the stairs by Derek.

"Are you a healer, Warren?" All but the mage were scraped, cut, and bruised by then.

"No, ser- I specialize in entropy, not creation magic. Can we please not talk now, ser?" He asked with a wheeze. He had grown up in a tower, yes, but he was not used to taking all the stairs at a run, casting magic, and holding a conversation at the same time. Exercise was frowned upon by the templars. And why was this Warden asking so many questions?

There were dozens more darkspawn at the next level, huddled around a campfire they had built and eating what appeared to be human flesh. Warren shuddered, and then began spellcasting. Alistair was deeply disturbed by their presence, so much so that he voiced it in the middle of the fight.

"Maker's breath! What are these darkspawn doing ahead of the rest of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here!"

"You could try telling them they're in the wrong place," Derek suggested darkly, tainted blood splattering his face as he neatly beheaded a hurlock.

"Right," Alistair barked back, still in shock. "Because clearly this is all just a misunderstanding. We'll laugh about this later." Between darkspawn, he spotted what seemed to be a corridor to another flight of stairs upward across the tower from them. "At any rate, we need to hurry! We need to get up to the top of the tower and light the signal fire in time! Teyrn Loghain will be waiting for the signal!"

They lost five more minutes cutting their way to the next set of stairs. Derek was quickly becoming as tense as Alistair. Their mage was absolutely terrified, but still he followed them up, the mabari at his side.

"Loghain better be ready to charge as soon as we light the signal. The king is depending on us," Derek heard Alistair say to himself as they cleared the third floor. Each battle was short, but they were slowly eating away at the time they had left to make it to the top of the tower…

In the next room they found several kenneled mabari being harassed by a group of genlocks. Alistair shouted to his mission partner, pointing at the lever that controlled the dog kennel doors. Derek rushed to it, and yanked it back. The cage doors rose, pulled by ropes attached in a complex mechanism to the ceiling, and the angry hounds burst free, attaching themselves to the darkspawn and shredding them.

"They can handle this; we need to keep moving!" Derek told Alistair, and they bolted in the direction of the next set of stairs. This flight was the last, it seemed, since it kept winding upward long after the others had ended. It was long enough that they were forced to leave Mage Warren, wheezing and panting desperately for air, on the stairs below. After a full minute of climbing the spiral stair, they reached a door. Derek, who had taken the lead, threw it open as he burst through, Alistair by his side.

They were not alone.

In the center of the room, crouching over the remains of a slain soldier, was an ogre. Duncan had told him of these, but had also said that they resided mostly in the Deep Roads, and not to expect to see them on the surface. Hearing them, it slowly stood and turned, giving them a tremendous view of its unrivaled muscle. It stood over eight feet tall, and had a massive pair of horns curling from its ashen, apelike face. It wore little armor, but that didn't mean much with darkspawn- even the lowliest genlock was more difficult to kill than a human warrior. It would be much harder to kill this huge monster, and Duncan hadn't left him any tips on how to face it.

Straight on, then, Alistair seemed to decide, since he charged forward without warning, slashing at the ogre's gut. It split the skin, revealing a thick protective layer of yellow fat underneath. The ogre snarled, and smashed the back of its hand against the templar, who was thrown bodily across the room. Brave though he was, Byron held back, doubtful that even his strong teeth could do much damage to the beast. Derek felt his mouth grow dry. This would be difficult. They might not survive. The beacon had to be lit, now, or it would not be lit at all.

"Watch for the sign!" he shouted to Alistair, who was climbing to his feet. "Light the beacon! I'll keep it busy," he added, darting towards the ogre but dodging to the side at the last second, just as its huge fist crashed into the floor. Seeing his opportunity, he stabbed his dagger deep into the ogre's unprotected shoulder and used it to pull himself up onto its humped back. He saw Alistair out of the corner of his eye, limping to the large fireplace. Grabbing a flaming piece of debris from a fire nearby, he lit the beacon. Content that their mission was completed, Derek focused entirely on the ogre. It was swatting angrily at him over its shoulder and bucking like a wild horse, but it couldn't reach him. He wrenched at his embedded dagger but could not free it. Giving it up, he grabbed onto one of the ogre's horns as it came within reach, and hauled himself up towards its head. Wielding the Cousland sword, he slashed at its throat, severing arteries. The ogre flailed for a final few seconds before it fell backwards, Derek just barely escaping being pinned beneath it. He threw himself over its shoulder just as it hit the floor with a thud. With its dying breath, it raised its hands to crush him, but he saw it, and jammed his blade one last time into the ogre's neck, crunching through cartilage and bone, severing its spinal cord.

And then there was searing pain, pain in his shoulder and arm and chest, making him collapse onto the ogre's corpse. He heard Byron snarling, and the roar of darkspawn. They had come up the stairs after them, then. Warren was probably already dead. With eyes blurred by pain and his impending death, he saw Alistair feebly defending himself from a group of genlocks. He was holding his leg strangely. Perhaps the ogre had broken it.

It didn't matter much now, though. Here they would all die. Satisfied that he had served his purpose, Derek Cousland let his tired eyes close, and his world gave way to darkness.

oooooooooo

_He dreamed, before he died. He dreamed that there was a horrible rumble of ancient dwarven masonry giving way under thousands of pounds of force, and there was a familiar roar in his ear, furnace-hot breath rolling over his body, and the noises of armor plate and bone splintering under muscle. He dreamed that he opened his eyes and saw the archdemon, surrounded by dead darkspawn. In its left talon was a limp body, clad in recognizable splintmail. Blood dripped off its leg. Alistair._

_A second set of claws wrapped around his own body, lifting him off the putrid corpse of the ogre. And then, he was buffeted by wind as the archdemon shoved backwards with its hind legs, plunging out of the now ruined tower and into the night sky. The rain had turned to snow, and stung as it blasted into his face. Odd, since his mortal wounds no longer seemed to pain him. Still, he was tired, and there was no escaping the archdemon's clutches now that it had him. He closed his eyes again, confident that they would never open again._


	7. Lothering

The darkness slowly pulled away after a very long time. Gradually, Derek was able to make out the surroundings. He felt prickly softness below him; a straw mattress. A plank ceiling was above him, very plain, but sturdy. The walls were beige adobe, supported by wooden beams. In the air, the smells of many herbs were mingling together. The Fade, so far, was not what he had expected.

"Ah, your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased." Derek jumped, startled by the voice at the foot of his bed. He blinked, and slowly sat up, head spinning. By a door at the far wall stood the beautiful Chasind woman he and the other recruits had happened upon in the forest. Why was she in the Fade, he wondered? Had she been killed as the darkspawn passed through the marsh?

"I remember you," he told her slowly, still blinking the blurriness away from the corners of his eyes. "The girl from the Wilds."

"I am Morrigan, lest you have forgotten. And we are _in_ the Wilds, where I am bandaging your wounds. You are welcome, by the way." He… he was alive? Still, the sounds of leathery wings and the image of mottled indigo skin echoed in his mind. He had been so sure that he was dead… but if he was alive, then did they win at Ostagar? Seeing his confusion, Morrigan stopped waiting for thanks and went on. "How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother's rescue?"

"Wait… what happened to the army? To the king?" His voice was rough with disuse. The apostate regarded him coolly.

"The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred. Your friend… he is not taking it well." He felt a sudden urge to lie back down. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back. Fergus... He was sure Fergus was in that battle. The battle that they had lost because _Loghain_, of all people, the Hero of whole bloody Ferelden, _quit the field_.

"I need to get out of here," Derek croaked, rubbing his eyes furiously with his palms.

"As you like," the young woman appeased. "Mother is outside with your friend… She wished to see you when you awoke." Alistair. Alistair is alive, too. The small comfort that was helped him none, not when Fergus was likely dead. But, maybe…

"No, wait… I have some questions, if you don't mind…"

"I do not mind. Take your time."

"Are there any survivors besides us?" Gold eyes met green easily.

"Only stragglers that are long gone," she told him nonchalantly, either not realizing or not caring that he was falling to pieces where he sat. "You would not want to see what is happening in that valley now."

"But why did Teyrn Loghain abandon the king?" Derek whispered to himself, not understanding. He had respected Loghain. With his experience and skill, they could have _won_ at Ostagar, he could feel it in his bones.

"I do not know who this Loghain even is," Morrigan answered his rhetorical question. "Perhaps ask Mother of it." Her Mother, again. Who was that woman, to be so powerful as to rescue a pair of Wardens from the top of the tower? And-

"Why did your mother save us?" Morrigan shrugged, cocking her head slightly with the small gesture.

"I wonder at that myself, but she tells me nothing. Perhaps you were the only ones she could reach." She paused, thinking for a moment as she stared at Derek. "I would have rescued your king. A king would be worth much higher ransom than you."

"Much, much higher," Derek agreed dismally, thinking of a thousand different reasons he was worthless. Could not protect his family, could not face tragedy, and now, could not do the simplest of duties given to him with success. Maybe Loghain had not abandoned the king at Ostagar. Perhaps the beacon had been lit too late. The blood of several thousand good men was on Derek's hands.

"What a sensible attitude. Mother is seldom sensible, however."

"How did she manage to rescue us, exactly?" Morrigan smiled, a sharp crook of her lips.

"She turned into a giant bird and plucked the two of you from atop the tower, one in each talon." She pantomimed the motion, snatching an invisible man from the palm of one hand with curled fingers. Derek was staring blankly at her. He had thought that a dragon was taking him away, not a roc, but it was possible that he had hallucinated part of his 'dream,' substituting one large flying creature for another. Morrigan saw the doubt on his face and misinterpreted it. "If you do not believe that tale, then I suggest you ask Mother yourself. She may even tell you."

"I think I've asked enough questions," the Warden told her quietly, devastated by all that she had shared. Fergus… Fergus was dead. The battle was lost, and the Blight still raged. Duncan- he had not cared for the man, but now he was dead, and when he was most needed. There were now only two Wardens in Ferelden: he and Alistair, both of them freshly Joined. Things did not bode well for Derek, or Fereldan- or Thedas as a whole. Not if its fate rested upon a broken down noble and a former stable boy with low self-esteem.

"I agree," Morrigan said, and it took a moment for him to realize she wasn't speaking of his opinion (how could she be, unless she could read minds?) but of his earlier statement. Slowly he swung his legs off the side of the bed. Morrigan rummaged through a trunk at the base of the bed, and pulled out his armor and clothes. Piece by piece, he began to put it all on. A few times, Morrigan insisted on helping him, lest he tear open the wounds she had so carefully closed and tended to. He didn't want the help, but he was afraid he needed it. His body was sore and stiff from all it had been through, and did not want to bend on its own.

Soon enough he was fully clothed, and the mage was motioning for him to come with her outside. Gingerly he followed her through the door, using the frame for support as he passed, squinting as daylight pounded down on him.

"See? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man." As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the old woman was standing a few yards away. She had addressed Alistair, who was standing with his back to the hut, looking anxiously out over a nearby pond. At he remark, he spun around, relief dawning on his haggard face.

"You… you're alive! I thought you were dead for sure," he said with some wonder, slowly approaching Derek as if he might disappear if he moved too quickly.

"I'm not, thanks to Morrigan's mother." It was both gratitude and grudge. He was starting to sound like his father, with all the mixed meanings in his words.

"This doesn't seem real. If it weren't for Morrigan's mother, we'd be dead on top of that tower."

"Do not talk about me as if I am not present, lad," the old witch snapped, and Alistair flinched very slightly.

"I didn't mean- but what do we call you? You never told us you name," Alistair sputtered. The woman laughed at him, cold and brief.

"Names are pretty, but useless. The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do." Flemeth- he had heard that name before… Alistair had too, for he was now backing away from the crone with wide eyes.

"_The_ Flemeth from the legends? Daveth was right- you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?"

"And what does that mean?" Flemeth asked scathingly, flicking her wrinkled hand. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

"I suppose we should thank you," Derek said then, rescuing Alistair.

"If you know what is good for you, I suppose you _should_!" Flemeth scolded.

"So why _did_ you save us?" The Witch of the Wilds narrowed her murky eyes at the two men.

"Well, we cannot have all the Grey Wardens dying at once, can we? Someone has to deal with these darkspawn." Her tone changed slightly, from mild ridicule to rousing. "It has always been the Grey Wardens' duty to unite the lands against the Blight. Or did that change when I wasn't looking?"

"It changed when most of them were slaughtered," replied Derek, acid in his voice. With the others dead, what were they supposed to do? Cailan would not have survived the battle, and Loghain was no friend of the Wardens. And Duncan had the treaties they recovered… They could garner no support alone. They needed to contact the Orlesian Wardens if they had any hope of stopping the Blight. Flemeth did not agree.

"If you think small numbers make you helpless, you are already defeated," she chastised them harshly.

"But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn! We had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?" cried Alistair, as frustrated and confused as Derek was getting to be.

"Now, _that_ is a good question," the elderly witch conceded. "Men's hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an enemy he can outmaneuver. Perhaps he does not see that the evil behind it is the true threat."

"The archdemon," breathed the templar.

"We should contact the rest of the Grey Wardens," voiced Derek, still certain that they could have little impact on the Blight without aide. Alistair shook his head.

"Cailan already summoned them. They'll come if they can. But I expect Loghain has already taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won't arrive in time." So they would have no support from their taint-brothers. Things sounded more hopeless by the second. Grasping at straws, Derek looked to the witch that had saved him.

"Will you help us fight this Blight, Flemeth?"

"Me? I am just an old woman who lives n the Wilds. I know nothing of Blights and darkspawn." _Welcome to my world, you lying old crone_. She was the most powerful of them all, and he suspected she simply didn't want to get her hands dirty. He had no doubt that she would take a bird's form and wing for new lands if they failed their mission, rather than try to lend support.

"Well," Alistair started uncertainly, "whatever Loghain's insanity, he obviously thinks the darkspawn are a minor threat. We must warn everyone this isn't the case." Flemeth scowled at his naivety.

"And who will believe you? Unless you think to convince this Loghain of his mistake?"

"He just betrayed his own king! If Arl Eamon knew what he did at Ostagar, he would be the _first_ to call for his execution!" Alistair shouted angrily.

"Arl Eamon? The arl of Redcliffe?" Where had this name come from? Derek knew of the man, of course- had never met him, as he lived so far in the south- but how was _Alistair_, stable boy turned templar turned Warden, familiar with him? Alistair's face flushed.

"I suppose… Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar; he still has all his men. And he was Cailan's uncle. I know him, he practically raised me. He's a good man, respected in the Landsmeet." He looked at the only other remaining Warden triumphantly. "Of course! We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help!" Derek was not so confident.

"Keep in mind that Loghain was also an honorable man."

"The arl would never do what Teyrn Loghain did," insisted the templar steadfastly. "I know him too well. But I still don't know if Arl Eamon's help would be enough. He can't defeat the darkspawn horde by himself!"

"Surely there are other allies we could call on." The Cousland was not happy with all his eggs in one basket, especially if Eamon chose to side with Loghain in the future. They would be left with nothing. Alistair started again, almost looking _happy_.

"Of _course_! The treaties!" He swung his pack off his shoulder and began rifling through it aggressively before he emerged victorious with a bundle of familiar old scrolls in his hands. Duncan had given them to Alistair for safe keeping, then? It felt as if a burden Derek had not even known he was bearing was lifted from his shoulders. He had thought those treaties were lost on the battlefield with the rest of the Wardens. "Grey Wardens can demand aid from dwarves, elves, mages, and other places! They're obligated to help us during a Blight!" Flemeth smiled, as if her plans were finally falling into place. It made Derek uneasy.

"I may be old," she croaked, "but dwarves, elves, mages, this Arl Eamon, and who knows what else… this sounds like an army to me." Alistair was grinning, and he grabbed Derek's arm excitedly.

"So can we do this? Go to Redcliffe and these other places and… build an army?" Although he hated to do it, Alistair's eyes had to be opened before he found himself disappointed.

"I doubt it will be as easy as that…" Flemeth cackled.

"And when is it ever?" Alistair's spirits could not be tempered.

"It's always been the Grey Wardens' duty to stand against a Blight. And right now, _we're_ the Grey Wardens." The witch nodded her approval.

"So you are set, then? Ready to be Grey Wardens?"

"As ready as we will ever be," Derek said grudgingly. "Thank you for everything, Flemeth."

"No, no, thank _you_. _You_ are he Grey Wardens here, not I. Now… before you go, there is one more thing I can offer you." At that moment, Morrigan emerged from the hut, hand on her hip, and Derek had a notion of what Flemeth intended to do.

"The stew is bubbling, Mother dear. Shall we have two guests for the eve or none?"

"The Grey Wardens are leaving shortly, girl. And you will be joining them."

"Such a sha- what?" The young witch seemed unpleasantly surprised.

"You heard me, girl. The last time I looked, you had ears!"

"I think that's an excellent idea," Derek supplied. He had been hoping that Warren would have stuck with the Wardens before Ostagar had been lost, but now that was impossible. Mages could be useful, though, and he would not turn one down.

Morrigan glanced in disbelief between them. "Have I no say in this?"

"You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance. As for you, Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives." Alistair looked like he would rather have died and was considering sayingso, so Derek accepted for them both.

"Very well, we'll take her with us."

"Not to… look a gift horse in the mouth," Alistair said delicately, "but won't this add to our problems? Out of the Wilds, she's an _apostate_." He spat the word out like a poison.

"If you do not wish help from us illegal mages, young man, perhaps I should have left you on that tower," Flemeth growled, and Alistair fell silent, suddenly very sheepish.

"Point taken." Morrigan was not done fighting it, either, though.

"Mother, this is not how I wanted this. I am not even ready-"

"You _must_ be ready. Alone, these two must unite Ferelden against the darkspawn. They need you, Morrigan," Flemeth persuaded. "Without you, they will surely fail, and all will perish under the Blight. Even I." Morrigan's eyes dropped subserviently.

"I… understand."

"And you, Wardens? Do _you_ understand? I give you that which I value above all else in this world. I do this because you must succeed."

"I understand," they both responded. Morrigan sighed.

"Allow me to get my things, if you please." She entered the hut. In her absence, it was suddenly very quiet.

"I don't suppose Byron survived," Derek finally murmured. The mabari had been his constant companion for years, now. His loss ached as much as the loss of his relatives.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said plainly. Flemeth only watched them.

Before long, Morrigan emerged from the hut again, a small canvas bag in her arms. The bag smelled strongly of flowers and herbs, and rattled mutedly when she moved it. Potions?

"I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens," she told them coolly, choosing to address Derek rather than Alistair. While she did not care much for either of them, the templar grated on her nerves. The morose one was much easier to talk to. "I suggest a village to the north of the Wilds as ou first destination. 'Tis not far, and you will find much you need there." At Alistair's continued glaring, she appended, "Or, if you _prefer_, I shall simply be your silent guide."

"No, I prefer you speak your mind," Derek said honestly. He did not mind the witch. Flemeth laughed from the porch.

"You will regret saying that!" The woman warned. Morrigan scowled.

"Dear, sweet mother, you are so kind to cast me out like this. How fondly I shall remember this moment," she said sweetly, sarcasm evident.

"Well, I always said if you want something done, do it yourself, or hear about it for a decade or two afterwards." A hard light shone in Flemeth's eye that none of them particularly liked.

"I just…" Alistair objected again. "…do you really want to take her along because her _mother_ says so?"

"We need all the help we can get." The more senior Warden sighed heavily, unable to argue.

"I guess you're right. The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them."

"I am so pleased to have your approval," Morrigan drawled. Derek changed the topic, hoping they would get along better on the road.

"Tell me about this village to the north., Morrigan."

"'Tis a small place of little consequence called Lothering. No more than a stop along your Imperial Highway where travelers purchase goods from local farms and smiths. I would go more often," said she, "were it not for the town's chantry. It makes the village particularly intolerant and unpleasant for a stranger such as me."

"A chantry?" Alistair asked unpleasantly. "And they never, in all this time, thought that _maybe_ you were a witch?" Morrigan laughed, a haughty noise that sounded forced.

"Of course they have. They even called out their templars once. They found nothing."

"I have no more questions," Derek sighed. They were like small children, bickering over nothing. Morrigan turned slightly to face Flemeth, who was waiting for them to leave by the door.

"Farewell, Mother. Do not forget the stew on the fire. I would hate to return to a burned-down hut."

"Bah! 'Tis far more likely you will return to see this entire area, along with my hut, swallowed up by the Blight." _Glad to have your vote of confidence, you old witch._ Morrigan stuttered uncharacteristically.

"I- all I meant was…" Flemeth's face softened slightly.

"Yes, I know. _Do_ try to have fun, dear." And then they set off, Morrigan in the lead and Alistair in the rear, with a pensive Derek forming the buffer between them.

oooooooooo

It was a full day's walk to Lothering, but had they not had Morrigan's guidance, it would have taken them three days at least. The young mage led them directly to the neglected roots of the Imperial Highway to the north of Flemeth's hut. From there, the going was much easier. There were fewer biting insects away from the marshes, and they were no longer ankle deep in stagnant water and mud. They encountered no other travelers, but that was to be expected. This far south, and with Ostagar nearby, everybody would be traveling north.

All they would ever see of those who went before them was discarded bloody bandages, the odd morsel of food, and an occasional corpse of a soldier or peasant who had succumbed to either injury or illness along the road. That they were left to lean against the low wall or lying on the path showed that their traveling companions were in a hurry, and some at least would have been wary of the Blight sickness. As far as Derek knew, it was not catching unless the blood of the sick was ingested or found an open cut, but most knew nothing of the disease except that it killed.

During the journey, Derek thought of what they had to do, ignoring the burning pain of loved ones lost. Alistair was quick to brainstorm with him, blocking out grief of his own.

"We have treaties with the dwarves of Orzammar, the Dalish elves, and the Circle of Magi," Alistair said, running a thumb over the wound scrolls he still carried. "And we should ask Arl Eamon for his help. But who should we see first?" Derek considered the layout of Ferelden.

"The Dalish elves must either be first or last," he said after a minute, remembering what Aldous had taught him about the elves many years ago. "They are the closest, living in the Brecilian Forest to the east of here, but it's impossible to say where exactly. We may find them straight away, or waste weeks searching for them."

"Ignoring the Dalish for now, then, what about the others?"

"We could take the West Road to Redcliffe, and sweep up into Orzammar. After that, we might find a ship to take up across Lake Calenhad, or we could walk around the northern edge until we came upon the tower." He frowned, and scratched his beard, then looked up to the witch, who was silently leading them. "What do _you_ think, Morrigan?"

"I know nothing of dwarves or elves or ships. I have never been that far north, before," she added thoughtfully. "I think I would have to find a warmer outfit; this one is flattering, but unsuitable for snow." Alistair choked on a sip of water he had taken from his canteen. Alarmed, Derek stared over his shoulder at him. Was he laughing? His face was awfully red. He looked ahead at Morrigan, who hadn't missed a step, her hips swaying gently and her smooth back entirely exposed to them. Then he glanced at Alistair again, who was still very red, but silent, wiping his mouth. Derek shook his head and ignored them both. Giving them attention would only encourage their nonsense. Or, that's what Mother had always said when he and Fergus…

"We've nearly arrived," Morrigan spoke, slowing down to walk side by side with Derek. "There are men ahead." The way she said it was distasteful, and caused Derek to look up from his feet to see who waited farther down the road.

A band of men in good armor lay in wait further down the highway, sitting on wagons and leaning against walls. Mercenaries?

Derek changed his mind when they got closer and could overhear them.

"Wake up, gentlemen! More travelers to attend to." What seemed to be the head of their merry band pointed at Derek, who had taken the front position over from Morrigan. "I'd guess that fellow is the leader." A rather slow sounding member of the bunch gawped at them for a moment, and tried to warn his own leader.

"Err… they don't look much like them others, you know. Uh… maybe we should just let these ones pass…" Stupid, then, but with more sense than his companions. The bandit leader could not be dissuaded.

"Nonsense! Greetings, travelers!"

"Highwaymen," murmured Alistair, taking Derek's left side. "Preying on those fleing darkspawn, I suppose." He seemed outraged by the act. Morrigan did too, but for more selfish reasons. Her pride had been wounded by their belief that they could overpower the trio.

"They are fools to get in our way," she said sharply, letting them hear her. More than one of them was leering at her assets. "I say teach them a lesson." The bandit leader smiled sleazily at her, his own eyes rolling over her chest and sticking there.

"Now, is that any way to greet someone?" He asked her breasts, and tsked. "A simple ten silvers and you're free to move on," he said then, eyes flashing over to Derek, who was _not_ in the mood for this.

"You should listen to your friend. We're not refugees," Derek warned, reaching over his shoulder and resting a hand on the hilt of his family sword. The slow bandit tried to talk reason into his leader once more.

"What did I tell you? No wagons, and this one looks armed," he slurred, staring stupidly at Derek. The bandit leader laughed, and put a firm hand on the slow bandit's shoulder.

"The toll applies to everyone, Hanric. That's why it's a toll," he explained cheerily, "and not, say, a refugee tax."

"Oh, right. Even if you're no refugee, you still gotta pay." And now even the stupid one was nodding and smiling. Derek and his companions stared daggers at the bandits.

"Forget it. I'm not paying."

"Well, I can't say I'm pleased to hear that. We have rules, you know." The bandit leader feigned sadness.

"Right," the slow one added. "We get to ransack your corpse, then. Those are the rules." The two Wardens and the witch did not so much as blink.

"Do you really want to fight a Grey Warden?" Derek asked the leader, tired. If they were going to fight, he'd rather just get it over with.

"Did he say he's a Grey Warden?" The slow one asked, doubt returning to his voice. "Them ones killed the king!"

_What?_

"Traitors to Ferelden, I hear. Teyrn Loghain put quite a bounty on any who are found," the bandit leader elaborated, positively grinning as he imagined the gold he would be traded for two live Wardens. His joy fell to shambles when the daft one warned him again.

"But… aren't them Grey Wardens good? I mean, really good? Good enough to kill a king?"

"You have a point," admitted the leader, taking a small step away from the group. "Well, let's forget about the toll. We'll just leave you to you darkspawn-fighting, king-killing ways," he said with a nervous smile, stepping aside for the travelers, but Derek wasn't about to let him off the hook.

"You know," he said, "the Grey Wardens could use a donation."

"You don't say." All pretenses were dropped as the two wolves sneered at each other.

"They is really good, boss. Remember," the slow one whispered loudly, and the bandit finally yielded.

"Well… yes. Twenty silvers?" he offered, digging through his pocket and drawing out a handful of coins, holding them out to placate the Warden. "That's all we've… collected today."

"Not enough, I'm afraid." The bandit sighed, biting his lip and signaling to his men with one hand.

"And just when we had things settled…"

The only good thing about fighting darkspawn, Derek decided as he disabled bandit after bandit, was that humans were very easy to kill or disable in comparison. With an easy swipe of his dagger, he sent one unarmored bandit fleeing down the road, a shallow cut running from his shoulder to his navel. The others were equally easy to beat back. Morrigan cast some sort of ice magic, and a layer of frost covered two bandits, who fell back, shivering and whimpering. Alistair was kinder than his companions, beating at the bandits with his scabbard instead of his blade. When they turned on the bandit leader, who had fallen back behind a cart, he flung his hands in the air.

"All right! We surrender!" The bandits that had not run away, lost consciousness, or died dropped their weapons and also kept their hands visible. "We-we-we're just trying to get by, before the darkspawn get us all!"

"You picked the wrong target," Derek hissed, antsy with adrenaline.

"Yes! Yes! Of… of course. We should've been more careful. I'm sorry," the bandit whined, as if it would help.

"Hand over everything you've stolen." With a blade at his throat, the bandit leader wasted no time in producing more coin. He passed a heavy sack of them to Derek, who in turn handed them over to Alistair to hold.

"The rest is in the chests we brought, I swear!" pled the bandit. Derek held his dagger steady for a moment, and then sheathed it.

"Then start running. And don't come back." The bandit and what colleagues of his could walk scrambled to their feet.

"Bless you! The darkspawn can have this place!" And they bolted south down the road. Derek did not bother to warn them that the darkspawn were approaching from that direction. For all he cared, they could die. If they would not fight for their country, and they would take so callously from those in need, then they deserved it.

Derek made quick work of the bandit's base of operations. He emptied their chests, handing some loot to his companions to carry, and holding much of it himself. They could sell what they could not use. Nearby he also found the corpse of what seemed to be a knight. He had probably been killed when he refused to pay the 'toll.' A shame, but the dead could not use their earthly belongings. Derek searched his person thoroughly, finding no silver, but coming across a letter signed 'Ser Henric of Redcliffe' that described the dead knight's hunt for one Urn of Sacred Ashes

Bandits taken care of and money divvied up (Alistair had protested using the stolen money, but Derek told him to give his portion to the chantry if it bothered him so much) they finally stepped off the Imperial Highway and got their first good look at Lothering in the aftermath of Ostagar.

"Well, there it is. Lothering. Pretty as a painting," Alistair declared, as they looked out over the pitiful shanty town that had been built on Lothering's border. Refugees huddled around tents and lean-tos in small groups, shivering together for warmth. Campfire smoke was fogging up the sky. Somewhere nearby, a baby was wailing.

"Ah. So you have finally decided to rejoin us, have you? Falling on your blade in grief seemed like too much trouble, I take it?" Morrigan's biting words cut both Alistair and Derek, though they had been aimed only at the templar. Neither man had been very talkative on the way to Lothering, preoccupied as they were with their grief.

"Is my being upset so hard to understand?" Alistair asked her angrily. "Have you never lost someone important to you? Just what would you do if your mother died?"

"Before or after I stopped laughing?" Alistair looked repulsed.

"Right. Very creepy. Forget I asked." Morrigan opened her mouth to irk him further, but Derek cut her off.

"Leave him alone, Morrigan."

"But how can I? He is-"

"_Enough_." There was enough force in his voice that she trailed off, glowering at him instead. Alistair, too, seemed surprised by his outspokenness. He had seen that his fellow Warden could be stern, yes, but domineering? Not that it bothered him all too much. He was content to follow, and it would keep the witch in her place.

"Actually, I thought we should talk," Alistair said. "Why would those bandits think _we_ killed King Cailan?"

"Loghain framed us," replied Derek darkly. "The Wardens are the perfect scapegoat. He thinks all the Fereldan Wardens are too dead to contest his claims, and nobody would trust any Orlesian Wardens that spoke for us."

"Yes, but _why?_" There was desperation in the question, and Derek knew Alistair was trying to find meaning in the Wardens' deaths.

"Perhaps this Loghain simply wants to be king, himself," Morrigan suggested loftily.

"But he has no claim to the throne," Alistair argued back.

"Anora," Derek said simply, and the conversation ended with both Warden's deep in thought. Anora was Cailan's widow, and Loghain's loyal daughter. As far as he was concerned, Loghain was effectively king until a Landsmeet could be held to determine who would succeed Cailan. The Queen remained an obvious candidate. As Cailan's uncles, Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan would also have claims to the throne. Until the noble families could be gathered, however, Ferelden belonged to Teyrn Loghain.

He led them down the stone ramp off of the road, and towards the village, passing peasants in dirty clothes who flinched away if they stepped too near. One man, a farmer by the looks of it, was not afraid to address the strangers.

"You don't look like the other folk fleeing from the south. Were you in the battle?"

"Just traveling through," Derek replied. Morrigan had said there were no survivors of Ostagar, and it would be suspicious to claim that they were. If Loghain really had put a bounty on them, then they had to deflect what attention they could and blend in.

"Good. No room here for any more outsiders."

When they passed through the front gates of the village, they saw a templar standing guard in the path. He wore a visored helm, and the steel-enforced battle robes provided to them.

"You there! If you're looking for safe shelter, I'll warn you: there's none to be found." Derek and Alistair approached the man, while Morrigan waited a short distance away, wary. "Move on if you can," the templar said when they were close. "Lothering's lost." So they knew of the approaching horde, then.

"We were looking for some news, actually."

"You might find that, though it's probably just frightened gossip," the templar told them wearily. He waved a gauntleted hand at the tents on the other side of the gate. "We've had refugees streaming in from the south for the last two days. The chantry and tavern are full to bursting. There simply isn't enough food to go around, and we templars can barely keep order. You'd be better off elsewhere, my friend."

"Are you keeping us from going in?" Derek asked, unable to make out if the templar was being friendly or trying to send them away without seeing his face.

"I'm just warning you things may not be hospitable as you'd expect. People are frightened."

"Thanks for the warning, then," Derek told the templar.

"Best of luck wherever you might go," he replied, and let them pass. The two Wardens paused by a cluster of barrels nearby to talk. Morrigan wandered over when the templar was distracted by another family trying to enter Lothering.

"I don't think we're going to be able to buy supplies here," Alistair said, watching a nearby war profiteer squabbling with what seemed to a chantry nun. "Do we have enough to last us?"

"I can hunt," Derek suggested. He had taken a nice longbow and a quiver of arrows from one of the fallen bandits.

"As can I," said Morrigan, "though I do not expect you shall want to share my prey with me, after I've caught it and played with it." She bore her teeth in a rare wide smile. It seemed more like a snarl to Derek. Alistair shuddered, and looked away from her.

"Then we hunt," he said. "What about healing poultices, bandages…?"

"With my magic," boasted the witch, "'twill not be needed."

"And what if you find yourself… tied up?" Alistair asked, feigning sweetness as the templar strode past. "Who shall heal us then, hm?" Morrigan frowned at him, unamused.

"The other Warden has an entire bag of bandages and potions. He, at least, need not worry about dying should I choose to abandon you in a fight," she threatened.

"I hadn't expected Lothering to be so crowded," Derek said then, "but this could work to our advantage. We should visit the tavern and the chantry, and gather information. The more we know about what Loghain is up to, the better."

"I will accompany you to the tavern," warned Morrigan, "but I shall stay there while you and the foolish one go to their chapel. I have no desire to be surrounded by those that would enslave me and throw me in a tower to rot."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," Alistair laughed. "They only put new mages in the tower. They _kill_ apostates like you."

"How reassuring," she said before Derek broke them up and dragged them along to Dane's Refuge.

The templar had not exaggerated when he had said the tavern was full. Refugees and citizens of Lothering filled every corner of the room, sitting not only in chairs and on stools but also on tables, banisters, floors, and in some cases, each other. In the center of the tavern, with nobody sitting too close, was a knot of soldiers. At that moment, the ranking officer of the group checked the door to see who had entered, and his face lit up.

"Well. Look what we have here, men. I think we've just been blessed." The commander approached them, and Derek and Alistair both recognized the yellow wyvern on his chest. The other soldiers were sliding off their stools, reaching for weapons.

"Uh-oh," Alistair muttered. "Loghain's men. This can't be good."

"Didn't we spend all morning asking about a pair of fellows by this very description? And everybody said they hadn't seen them?" asked one soldier maliciously.

"It seems we were lied to," his commander agreed. Seeing the commotion, a red-haired woman who had been talking quietly to a family in the corner came over. She wore chantry robes, making clear her affiliations.

"Gentlemen," she appealed to the soldiers, standing between them and the Warden party. She had an Orlesian accent; unusual for a town this far southeast. "Surely there is no need for trouble. These are no doubt simply more souls seeking refuge." The commander pushed her aside.

"They're more than that. Now stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you'll get the same as them."

"I don't need your help, miss," Derek told her, sighing as he reached for the family sword. Was it so much to ask, to find a place he could sleep in peace without a fight every three seconds? The redhead was pouting angrily.

"_You_ don't need my protection. But these men will blindly follow their master's command even unto death." Did she know, then, that Loghain had framed the Wardens? Did she already know who they were?

"I am not the blind one!" The commander exclaimed, baring his blade at last. Derek drew his own two blades in retaliation, holding them ready. "I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens' treachery! I serve him gladly! But, enough talk. Take the Wardens into custoy. Kill the sister and anyone else that gets in your way."

"Right," the soldier said. "Let's make this quick!"

Quick, it was, and to the surprise of all, the chantry sister joined in, whipping a blade from _somewhere_ on her person where it had been previously concealed. She wielded it confidently, slicing at the soldiers but not fatally wounding them. Derek, Alistair, and Morrigan had no such quarrel. When the commander dropped his sword and gave in with a wild-eyed awe, his chatty soldier was dead on the floor.

"All right, you've won! We surrender!" The commander wailed, scuttling backwards into the bar when Derek took a step towards him, blades still drawn. The sister aid a hand on his arm, trying to stay his blade.

"Good. They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting, now."

"I don't want them reporting to Loghain," Derek told her firmly, and raised his sword, point down, over the commander's head. If he didn't move, he could slide his blade right through the base of his neck. A quick, relatively clean death.

"Please! Wait!" begged the commander, breaking down into tears. This upset the sister even more, who threw herself in front of his blade, blocking his view of Loghain's officer.

"They have surrendered!" She yelled at him, outraged. "They were no match for you! Let them be!" He glanced at Alistair, who had been resigned to the task of eliminating the threat, though he seemed very unhappy about killing men who had surrendered. Morrigan stood idly by, watching Derek and waiting for the word. It didn't matter to her what he decided, though she probably would advocate killing them if he asked.

He did not. A quick survey of the soldiers in the tavern revealed them to be terrified, whimpering messes, bleeding all over the hardwood floor. He could still hear the commander sniveling behind the Orlesian sister. Curtly, he nodded to the woman, and she cautiously moved aside, letting the commander back into view.

"Start running. Right now. Know that if you report to Loghain, I _can_ find you. I _will_ kill you."

"Y-yes," the commander sputtered, grabbing his sword from where it lie several feet away, and sheathing it before the action could be mistaken as a last-ditch effort to attack. "Thank you!" He grabbed his men by their tunics and made a run for the door. "Thank you!"

The tavern was unnaturally quiet for the few seconds after they left, with no noises but those of breathing, and a mug being placed heavily onto a table. Slowly, the crowd returned to normal, however, filling the establishment with the loud buzz of conversation. A young woman with a mop quickly appeared, and began wiping up the spilled blood.

"We should, er. Dispose of this," Alistair suggested to Derek, pointing at the dead Gwaren soldier. He nodded, and grabbed the feet while Alistair slipped his hands under the corpse's arms. Together they carried him out the front door, and disposed of him in a nearby ditch. Before they left it, Derek paused, and examined the fine splintmail the dead man was wearing. Then, he looked at Alistair's. It was worse for the wear, battered by their constant warfare with darkspawn.

"Do you want his armor?" Alistair frowned.

"Um… That's, uh…"

"Oh, come on. You're the one who told me to loot the dead," Derek countered. Well, he hadn't quite said it _that_ way, and Alistair never seemed to take the very clothes off their backs… "Look, he got stabbed in the leg and bled out; his armor in almost perfect shape. Yours is falling apart. You need it, and we can't afford to buy you a new set," he continued to reason, wearing down on the templar. Finally, Alistair gave in.

"Fine, fine! Help me get it off him then. You're despicable, you know," he said, not unkindly, but still unhappily. After a small struggle, they managed to pull the splintmail off of the dead man. Alistair stowed it in his pack, promising to clean it up and use it later.

The matter settled, they returned to the tavern, and the chantry sister was on top of them yet again. Morrigan arched her eyebrows at them from where she sat at the bar. One of th many men had given up their seat for her, and she had apparently won half a dozen drinks with her exotic beauty. They were lined up in front of her, and she was nursing one while she watched the show.

"I apologize for interfering," the Orlesian said with a small curtsy, "but I couldn't just sit by and not help."

"So I see," Derek said, perplexed by the woman. "Where does a sister learn to fight like that?" She laughed, and- was she _blushing_?

"I wasn't born in the Chantry, you know. Many of us had more… colorful lives before we joined. Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was," she added, and the two Wardens looked at each other.

"What does that mean?"

"I joined the chantry to live a life of religious contemplation, but I am no priest, not even an initiate." Then she was not bound to the chantry, and she could leave if she wished. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

"And… is there something you wanted from us?"

"Those men said you're Grey Wardens. You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do?" Alistair nodded slowly, and she charged on to the finish. "I know after what happened, you'll need all the help you can get. That's why I'm coming along" Of course she would invite herself. It all smelled very fishy.

"Why so eager to come with?" asked Derek, eyes narrowed at Leliana. She wrung her hands, and wouldn't meet his eyes as she reluctantly responded.

"The Maker told me to." Oh, for the love of Andraste- not more homage to the Maker. Their god was cruel, purely malicious. When called upon for aid, he instead ruined lives. The last thing they needed on their quest was one of the Maker's apostles. Maybe she was just crazy, though. He hoped she was just crazy.

"Can you… elaborate?"

"I-I know that sounds… absolutely insane- but it's true!" she faltered."I had a dream… a vision!" She was mad, indeed. Alistair had arrived at the same conclusion.

"More crazy? I thought we were all full up." Leliana did not stop trying, though.

"Look at the people here. They are lost in their despair, and this darkness, this chaos… will spread. The Maker doesn't want this. What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker's work. Let me help!"

"You feel sorry for the people? Help them here," Derek advised her darkly. He was fairly certain that all the Maker had planned for him was a long, horrible life terminated with a long, horrible death, and he really didn't want a travel companion preaching the Maker's 'kindness' to him day and night.

"Then what?" The woman asked him reproachfully, hands on her hips. "What happens when the horde comes? It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed."

As much as he hated to admit it to himself, she had a point. At the moment, the future of Ferelden rested on the shoulders of three people. Could he afford to refuse the help, simply because he did not like where it was offered? It would make him a hypocrite, after what he had told Alistair when Morrigan joined their party. He exhaled, and caved, though he suspected he would one day soon regret the decision.

"Then join me, if you would fight them."

oooooooooo

_a/n: It always bothered me a little that the human noble wakes up in Flemeth's shack with both Alistair AND Dog waiting for him/her. How could Flemeth in the shape of a bird carry three unconscious passengers? And why would she bring Dog, when it is only the Wardens she cares about? It makes no sense, so I did not let that happen._


	8. Penance and Preparations

They spent quite a while in the tavern, Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana drinking and trying to enjoy the small break, and Derek trying to find information. He sought out the owner of the establishment, finding him unenthusiastically wiping down a counter.

"You going to make more trouble?" The owner asked, casting a scornful eye on the traveler as he went about his work. "We've had about all we can stand in Lothering now."

"Sorry about the mess," apologized Derek. He was ready to pay the barkeep compensation if need be. This man knew things that he needed to hear, gathered from all the travelers from the south and various other acquaintances that had recently visited the inn. No coin needed change hands, though.

"They had it coming, and they were trouble enough themselves. So as long as you don't start more, I won't get excited." He tossed his rag aside, and put both hands palm down on the counter, leaning into it. "Right, then. Name's Danal. Sorry I can't chat much… as you see, we've a full house."

"Who were those men we fought, exactly?"

"Then Teyrn Loghain marched by, he left those fellows behind to look for Grey Wardens. I suppose that's you?" He asked this calmly, as if they were discussing the weather.

"You'll keep that to yourself," Derek advised. He didn't want the news of their visit spreading. Danal shrugged.

"I have no qualm with you, whatever the teyrn says. My grandfather served. Your secret's safe with me. In fact, I'd offer you a drink on the house, but your lady friend over there is hoarding the last of my stock," the barkeep said with a frown, nodding at Morrigan. Several more drinks had manifested in front of her. Despite their bickering, it seemed the witch had pushed a flagon of ale over to Alistair, who was sharing it with Leliana. They seemed to be conversing quietly with each other.

"That's alright," allowed Derek. He could relieve Morrigan of some of her stock of alcohol when he was done gathering news. "I was more interested in any rumors you might have heard."

He stood there leaning against the bar for the better part of the next hour as Danal rambled on, needing only small cues to be reminded of more rumors he had heard shared in his tavern. None of them were reassuring. From what he could gather, Loghain had declared himself regent with Anora's support, and was rebuilding his armies. The exalted Arl Eamon was deathly ill with a mysterious sickness, and while his knights were away searching for a mythical cure, monsters had overrun Redcliffe. To the north, the dwarves were apparently mourning the death of their king, and deadlocked in a vicious battle to appoint a new one. Something distinctly bad was apparently happening at the Circle, which had been placed under quarantine and blocked off by templars, and to make matters worse, the Dalish elves in the east were apparently dropping dead from some sort of Blight disease and repeated werewolf attacks.

When Danal had shared all he knew, Derek passed him a few silver bits for his time, and went to gather his companions. His face must have read as more grave and troubled than usual, since Alistair spoke up as soon as he drew near.

"What's wrong? What did you hear?"

"Things have become more complicated." He explained the situation to them- the sick elves, the trouble at the Circle, Orzammar's inner turmoil. He saved news of Redcliffe for last, only reluctantly mentioning it. "Arl Eamon is sick, Alistair. It doesn't sound good. The arlessa apparently has the knights of Redcliffe out searching for the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

"We should visit the chantry, see if the templars know anything. If Arl Eamon's knights are looking for Andraste's Ashes, then they would have stopped there."

"As I have told you, I shall stay here while you go chasing your wild geese," Morrigan told them, glaring at Leliana, who pointedly refused to acknowledge the witch. Derek had the feeling that the two of them weren't going to be braiding each other's hair and sharing secrets any time soon.

"_I _shall accompany you, Derek," the redhead volunteered warmly. He blinked at her. It was the first time since the start of Ostagar that he had been called by name.

"All right, then," he said, and turned to Alistair. "Are you coming?"

"Of course I am," the blonde replied hastily. "Why would I want to stay here? So I could enjoy Morrigan's pleasant company?" She pretended not to hear, instead arranging the drinks before her into a line.

"Let's go, then," Derek said, and led them out of the tavern and into the light of day. They crossed the bridge over the creek, back towards the reinforced building that was the town's religious center. Outside the front gate, a man in robes and a preteen boy stood by a notice board. Alistair laughed, astonished.

"The chanters are still operating their board? Now _that's_ dedication," the man said, some admiration evident in his voice. A chanter's board: Derek had heard of these. The brothers and sisters of the Chant would often receive requests for help from locals to be posted on the board. If any passing adventurers took interest, they could help out the local in need in return for a gift of coin. Maybe this could be a good source of income, to fatten their funds. With Leliana around, they now had to find yet another set of armor. If she was a swordswoman, then her robes would not be enough. Unless she could use a bow… he would have to ask her later.

Derek paused at the board, glancing over the parchment pinned to it. On behalf of the chantry, one notice asked any visiting the fields to the north to retrieve a keepsake from a boy's slain mother. Another called for the eradication of a group of mankilling bears. A third warned of bandits in the area, and offered a reward for their removal. All sounded like tasks his growing group could manage, and they desperately needed the coin. The chanter smiled as he pulled the notices down and pocketed them.

Then, they entered the front gate, only to come upon a small angry crowd. In the center was a Chasind man, screaming endlessly about the horrors o the Blight, and the hopelessness of it all.

"The legions of evil are on your doorstep!" he cried hoarsely in the faces of the farmers and templars trying to calm him down. "They will feast upon our hearts!" One of the farmers tried in vain to speak sense into him.

"Please! You're scaring the children!" Behind the farmer, Derek noticed, a pair of young girls were hiding next to a cart, frightened by the barbarian.

"Better to slit their throats now than let them suffer at darkspawn hands!" the doomsayer roared, spinning in place to address the entire cluster of people. Then his eyes fell on Derek and Alistair, and widened in absolute terror.

"_There!_ Their minions are already amongst us! These men bear their evil stench! Can you not see the vile blackness that fills them?" He was pointing a shaking finger at the Wardens, who were both mildly dumbstruck. Could it be that this man could actually sense the taint within them?

Alistair realized it first, and surreptitiously mentioned it to Derek. On the man's leg was a half-healed wound, festering with pus and dark ooze. This man had the Blight sickness. That is how he could sense it in them- their mutual taint bound them together. He would die soon, no matter what any of them did.

"Why don't you keep your voice down?" Derek tried to calm the man, but he only grew louder.

"_I watched the black horde descend upon my people! I will not be silent!_" One of the little girls started bawling.

"P-please! Stop!" ordered the desperate farmer, trying to restrain the flailing Chasind man unsuccessfully. "Somebody shut his mouth!"

"But isn't he right?" another farmer asked, biting his nails. "The bann left us! We're going to die!"

"These minions are but the _first_ of those who will destroy us," wailed the Blighted man.

"Don't be a fool!" Derek tried again, growing frustrated. "Darkspawn can be defeated!"

"_No!_ I have seen them! You cannot run! You cannot fight!"

"Well, standing around and shouting won't save you!" Derek hollered into the man's face, but he did not listen.

"There is nothing to do! No hope is left!" Downright angry by then, Derek crossed his arms, sneering at the pathetic lout before him.

"Could you cluck like a chicken when you do that?" The young noble asked viciously. He could have sworn he heard Alistair snort behind him, and the _smack_ of Leliana's delicate hand beating him in the shoulder for finding humor where she saw none. At the declaration, the man at last fell silent, but turned on Derek with outrage.

"Are you… calling me a coward?" Anger was better than panic, at any rate. Progress at last.

"I know _dogs_ made of sterner stuff than you," Derek asserted. Byron certainly had been braver. Byron…

"I…" the Chasind started, and he hung his head. "I am ashamed. But the monsters will take you all!" He maintained, stumbling for the gate. "The blackness will come…"

"He was right, wasn't he?" one of the chantry brothers asked, scared. "There's no hope for us…"

"Maybe, maybe not," admitted Derek.

"Then… what shall we do?" the brother whimpered. Alistair stepped forward, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Go north, and take as many people with you as you can. Make for Denerim. Teyrn Loghain is gathering his army there; it's the safest place you can be right now." Tearfully the brother thanked Alistair, and quickly bestowed the Maker's blessing on him. Then he hurried into the chantry, listing to himself the things he would need to gather for the journey. When he was gone, Alistair turned to Derek, displeased.

"'Maybe, maybe not?' By Andraste, we're supposed to be inspiring people to fight the Blight, not convincing them it's hopeless!"

"One can do both," Derek said. He certainly believed it himself. He would do all he could to end the Blight, certainly… but it was his penance, his due to the Maker, as was all the punishment their god seemed to be doling his way. He doubted that they could succeed, and he saw no hope himself. Still… he would try.

"No, one can't," Alistair disagreed, looking at him strangely.

"Alistair is right, Derek," Leliana said softly. "We must show these people that the Blight can be overcome. We must _give_ them hope!"

"Hope for what?" Derek snapped, his pent up rage finally boiling over. "Their homes will still be destroyed, even if we end the Blight! _The dead will still be dead!_" Leliana's face flushed, and Alistair looked away. Derek began striding away before either could think of something to say. He didn't want to hear it. Even if they ended the Blight tomorrow, he would not have Fergus back, or Mother and Father, or Oren, Oriana, Byron… There would be no home for him to return to, and nobody waiting to welcome him back.

Riled up, he all but stormed through the chantry doors, his companions maintaining a careful distance. Just inside, he spotted a templar with no helm directing another pair of men in his order. As the two helmeted templars left, Derek moved in, securing his attention.

"Yes? Who might you be?"

"Nobody of importance… are you in charge, here?"

"I am Ser Bryant, commander of Lothering's remaining templars," the plate armored brother introduced himself, scrutinizing the stranger. "You don't seem like the other refugees. Are you one of Arl Eamon's knights?"

"No, I am not."

"He drove off the bandits outside the village," Leliana's voice sounded, and she and Alistair came to his side.

"Indeed?" Ser Bryant asked. "They're gone?" A nearby templar joined them, having overheard.

"It's true," he said, vouching for them. "I saw the bastard running for the hills, myself."

"That is an impressive feat, indeed!" Ser Bryant said, grateful. "Will you accept a small reward for your efforts?"

"Certainly, thank you," Derek accepted graciously, taking the bag of coins handed to them. With this, they could perhaps pool together to buy Leliana a decent set of leather armor after all. But, no, he had given his companions the coin and could not ask for it back.

"If it interests you," Ser Bryant continued, seeing how Derek weighed the bag in his hands and deliberated with himself, "there is a chanter's board outside full of quests that need doing. The chanters even offer pay for some of them. Now, unless there's something else you need…?"

"Yes, actually," Alistair chipped in. "We were wondering if any Redcliffe knights have passed through this way."

"You're in luck," the old templar told them, and gestured at a knight standing at a table nearby. He had his nose buried in an old tome, eyebrows pulled slightly together as he read. "That one over there is one of Arl Eamon's, out of Redcliffe. Now, I have business to attend to, if you will excuse me. Travel safely, and may the Maker watch over you." Derek recoiled from the blessing, and hurried away to talk to the knight. Alistair's mouth dropped open.

"Ser Donall? Is that you?" The knight spun around to see who had called his name.

"Who… Alistair?" Both their faces lit up with grins. "By the Maker, how are you? I… I was certain you were dead!" This dampened the mood.

"Not yet, no thanks to Teyrn Loghain," Alistair said sourly. Ser Donall sneered at the mention.

"If Arl Eamon were well, he'd set Loghain straight soon enough." The knight sighed. "But our only hope now is a miracle. Every knight of Redcliffe has gone in search of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. Andraste's ashes are said to cure any illness, but I fear we are chasing a fable. With each day, my hope dims."

"We were hoping to have an audience with Arl Eamon," Derek mused, further disturbed by the information.

"Why is that, if I may ask?"

"We need his help against Teyrn Loghain."

"I see," Ser Donall murmured, placing a hand over his mouth as he thought. "The arl is a popular man, it's true. Teyrn Loghain, however, is a hero throughout Ferelden. Whatever the Teyrn has done or not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That is my primary concern."

"Do you think Loghain is involved with the arl's illness?" wondered the newest Warden suddenly, the thought having just come to him. The knight was not pleased with the idea.

"The arl fell ill before the king died. But what if Loghain planned that, too? Ah, such thoughts do not sit well with me."

"We should see what's happening in Redcliffe ourselves," Alistair said. "I believe that now more than ever."

"If nothing else," Donall said with a shrug, "I am certain you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe. The arlessa is there, and she could tell you more than I could. I intend to return there myself, once Ser Henric arrives."

"Your friend Ser Henric is dead. I have something of his," Derek told him quietly, unhappy to be the bearer of bad news. He pulled the letter and locket he had taken off the dead knight on the highway from his pack and held it out for Ser Donall.

"What?" The blood drained from Ser Donall's face. He looked devastated, numbly taking the trinket and vellum from his new acquaintance. "And you have his locket? And a note? Maker's mercy… Thank you for giving me these. I would never have known otherwise."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Derek consoled him sincerely.

"Thank you. I wonder how many of us have met similar fates on this mad quest." The knight swiped at his eyes. "With… with Henric gone, I need to return to Redcliffe. Perhaps later I will seek out the scholar his note mentions. But I must go. Thank you again, good ser. You have been most helpful." To Alistair, he said, "Farewell, old friend. I hope to meet you again in Redcliffe." He brushed past them, and out the door.

"So our plan is decided?" Derek asked. "We start at Redcliffe and sweep north to Orzammar?"

"Ooh, we are visiting the dwarves?" Leliana asked, suddenly very excited. "I have heard so many wonderful tales of their extravagant city!"

"We will not be visiting as tourists," he felt obliged to remind her, and she reigned her excitement in. "I only hope they have chosen a new king by then…" They stood in silence for a moment, and then Derek- when had he become the leader?- turned to Leliana.

"Do you have any armor? Anything more fitting for war than chantry robes?" She blushed, and pressed her hands to her voluptuous bosom in order to see past it to her garb. Alistair stared at the action stupidly for a moment before he, too, flushed red and glanced uncomfortably away.

"You're right, these won't do if we're fighting darkspawn," she agreed, biting her lip and looking concerned. "I don't have the gold to buy any equipment…" Derek pulled out the chantry board quests and showed them to her.

"We could earn some money this way," he speculated, "and it will be good practice for you. I can't help but assume that your weapon skills have been dulled by your cloistered life."

ooooooooo

They earned another small sack of money by doing the chantry's work, and all very quickly. They had collected Morrigan from the tavern (and just in time; she had been threatening a drunk that was sitting a little too close with life as a eunuch) and ventured off into the north wood. It was more of a prairie than anything, though, and they could see bandits approaching from long distances. Derek had been pleased to discover that Leliana was as skilled with a longbow as she was with a dagger, and together with Morrigan, she easily picked off a few men from each band before they could get close. This allowed the Wardens to easily wipe out those who remained.

Along the way they found the orphaned boy's dead mother, and retrieved her family heirloom. Not twenty yards away they came upon the Blight bears, and after a tricky fight, vanquished them with only a few scratches. After all of that, they had found five sovereign's worth of coin and equipment, and were given one or two more when they turned in to Chanter Devon, who smiled and recited his thanks through the Chant of Light. With that, they visited a merchant Leliana had mentioned was staying in the tavern and purchased her a secondhand set of leather armor.

And just like that, they found they were done in Lothering. They had restocked as well as they could, and gathered all the information there was to be found. They had even made some money and helped some of the locals along the way, but Derek was getting antsy from staying in the town, and he knew it was time to move on. He told his companions so, too- Alistair and Morrigan seemed content enough, and Leliana put on a bittersweet smile.

"I will miss my life here," she said, looking over the chantry for the last time, "but my work is with you, now."

All packed up, each with a bedroll and pack, they finally began to journey north, back to the Highway. As they passed through the front gate, though, Derek heard a voice muttering in a foreign tongue. He slowed down, and stopped, glancing to his left. There in a cage stood a giant man, a head and a half taller than he and twice as wide. His white hair was braided in thick cornrows and fastened behind his head with a leather thong. His skin was an odd shade of grayish tan, and his eyes, he was startled to notice, were a piercing pinkish red. Brother Aldous had told him the little Fereldan knew of people like this. He was a qunari, one of a warrior race from across the sea. This particular qunari seemed to be chanting some sort of prayer to himself. Curious, Derek went closer, and the huge man finally looked at him, coolly scanning him head to toe.

"You aren't one of my captors. I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace."

"He has been placed here by the chantry," Leliana said quietly. "The revered mother said he slaughtered an entire family. Even the children."

"It is as she says. I am Sten of the Beresaad- the vanguard- of the qunari peoples."

"Capturing you must have been difficult," Derek remarked, surprised that it had been managed at all. The qunari were famed for their lasting endurance and strength. They were the mabaris of the humanoid world.

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders." The Warden's eyebrows knit together as he locked eyes with the caged warrior.

"You didn't resist capture?"

"I waited for several days until the knights arrived."

"Why?"

"Because I wished to." A small voice in the back of Derek's mind began whispering.

_Kin._

He frowned. The qunari had waited for his punishment, was waiting for his death in a cage… was thrust before Derek in the peril of the Blight.

_Kin. He is kin. He is penitent._

"Aren't you interested in seeking atonement?" Derek posed, genuinely curious.

"Death will be my atonement." Sten did not seem overly bothered by his inevitable fate.

_KIN._

"There are other ways to redeem yourself," suggested Derek, hinting at his coing proposal. Sten took the bait.

"Perhaps," he allowed, watching the human before him carefully. "What does your wisdom say is equal to my crime?"

"You could help me defend the land against the Blight." That was the Maker's redemption for him, and perhaps it was meant for Sten as well. Both had blood on their hands.

"Er," Alistair finally tried to barge in, seeing what Derek was doing, but the Cousland held up a hand to silence him.

"The Blight?" asked Sten, shifting slightly. "Are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"Yes, I am."

"My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill… I suppose not every legend is true."

"Indeed," agreed Derek. "I'll leave you for now."

"Farewell, then," Sten bade him in his even voice.

"To be left here to starve, or to be taken by the darkspawn… no one deserves that, not even a murderer," Leliana said sadly.

"'Tis repulsive! To cage a noble creature such as he!" declared Morrigan, surprising them with her accord. It seemed she had been trying to hold it in until now in an attempt to keep from sharing an opinion with the lay sister, but could retain it no longer.

"We aren't leaving him here," Derek told them. Alistair groaned.

"This is a _bad_ idea." Leliana piped up at the same time.

"The revered mother will never allow it! Suppose he kills again?"

"Then we put him down," Derek said simply. He did not think the qunari to be dangerous to them. "Back to the chantry. We need to speak to the revered mother."

"I shall wait for you here," their mage said, and they turned around, marching back through the village, back over the bridge, and back into the religious building.

"She will be in the back study," Leliana said quietly, leading them past a pair of Chanters giving a sermon to glassy-eyes refugees. They followed her through a pair of double doors and past a matching pair of templar guards to stand before an elderly woman witting beneath a sunbeam in an old chair. The woman smiled up at them.

"Good day, Sister Leliana. I'm surprised to see you're still in Lothering."

"It is good to see you as well, your Reverance," the Orlesian said with a curtsy.

"I do not recognize you companion. Greetings. Will you be making a donation to the chantry? Our need had never been greater."

"We have nothing to offer," Derek said honestly, deciding it unwise to inform her that even if he _had_ money, he would not give it to a chantry, let alone one that would surely fall to darkspawn within a fortnight. The revered mother scrutinized Leliana's clean new armor, and took note of their own quality gear.

"I understand. Not all are wealthy enough to spare even a few coins for the Maker's favor." He could have laughed at her poorly masked attempt to guilt him. Te Maker's favor? As if a few copper bits thrown in her hat could win him the _Maker's favor_. Nothing he had done so far in way of actual charity had helped him on that front, and why would it start to help him now? She saw he wouldn't budge, and sighed. "What can I do for you, then?"

"I want to talk to you about Sten, the qunari you imprisoned." The old priest stood, then, and faced him, as if the added height would intimidate him.

"It might have been kinder to execute him, but I leave his fate to the Maker. Why does he interest you?"

"Is there any way I can convince you to release him?" If not, there was always plan B- pick the lock and take the qunari anyway. He would not be leaving Lothering without him.

"Then his next victims might count you and me as their murderers," her Reverence said, echoing Leliana's earlier statement. He would not give in to her, however, and kept trying.

"I was thinking you might release him into my custody." The old woman turned to Leliana for council.

"And what do you say on this, Leliana? You know your friend better than I." The redhead clasped her hands in front of her.

"These are… unusual times, your Reverence. With us, the qunari might do some good. I am sure of it, in fact," she bluffed. The revered mother's sharp gaze drifted between her, Derek, and Alistair, who was standing silently in the background.

"Were things not so desperate… very well, I trust you." She took a ring of iron keys from her pocket, and handed them to Leliana. "Take these keys to his cage, and Maker watch over you."

"Thank you, your Reverence. Your trust is not misplaced," assured the redhead, curtsying again.

With the keys in hand, they made haste back to Sten's cage.

"You wish something more of me?" the giant asked blandly.

"I have the key to open your cage." Morrigan perked up slightly from where she was leaning on her staff nearby. She had not expected the Warden to follow through.

"I confess," Sten also confided, "I did not think the priestess would part with it."

"You can atone for your crime by assisting me," Derek said, sliding the key into its slot in the door.

"So be it," Sten said. "Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight."

"Very well," the noble replied, and turned the key, unlocking the cage door and letting it swing open. He stepped back to let the qunari out.

"And so it is done," the huge qunari said, stretching and seeming larger than ever. "I will follow you into battle. In doing so I shall find my atonement." A flash of doubt wormed through Derek's mind, and he could not help but ask one final question of the warrior.

"And what if I don't lead you to your atonement?"

"Then I will find it myself," rumbled Sten. "May we proceed? I am eager to be elsewhere."

"As am I," Derek said, gazing back into the forsaken village of Lothering. "As am I."

oooooooooo

_a/n: I thought I would mention that the spring semester has just begun for me, and I find myself far busier. I really only have weekends, Tuesdays, and Fridays to play/write, so updates may be a little more spaced out. But, I don't plan on abandoning this!_

_Thank you for reading!_


	9. To Live

A quick final journey was made into Lothering. With Sten at his side, Derek made quick work of hunting down the giant's steel armor while the others set up camp by the river to the north. The armor was not with the merchant in the tavern, but he had directed them, trembling, to speak with the war profiteer near the Chantry. So there they went, people gasping at the sight of the freed qunari and carefully keeping their distance.

There was no crowd around the merchant when they arrived, evidently having given up trying to persuade him to lower his prices. There the weasel stood by the back of his small cart, counting coins with a greasy grin. It fell away when he saw the two surly men approaching, though. Slowly, he backed around a crate on the ground, putting it between them.

"Come on, now," he was saying, "I'm only trying to make-"

"We didn't come about your prices," Derek said, looking into the man's cart. He pointed at a bundle of metal plate buried there underneath a stack of clothing. "Is that your armor, Sten?"

"Yes."

"We'll be taking that back," Derek told the merchant as the qunari gathered the heavy armor in his muscular arms.

"You can't just take that!" The merchant objected, but it fell on deaf ears. "I- I'll have the templars after you for this?"

"Do you really think they'll listen, after you've all but robbed everyone in Lothering with your prices?" asked Derek, mildly amused. The merchant sputtered some more, but he did not stay to hear it. "Did you have a weapon before, Sten? Do you see it here?" The qunari looked, and shook his head.

"What kind do you prefer?"

"I prefer _my_ sword," the qunari said with an exasperated sigh, but he knew that Derek could not provide it. "A… greatsword, as you call it. Two hands, long blade."

"We looted a decent greatsword off of a bandit earlier today. You can have it, for the time being. Maybe we will find _your_ sword later on." After all, they _would_ be traveling throughout the entirety of Fereldan. He would not be surprised if they happened upon Sten's sword at some vendor in Denerim.

It was a forty minute walk to the river, which they took in comfortable silence. Sten followed a half-step behind Derek, who was carefully watching for wolves or bears and seeing none. Maybe they had been spooked away by all the commotion in the area.

Soon enough, the glow of a fire burning merrily on the shore could be seen under the dusky sky, twinkling off of the smooth water. Sten quickened, and after dropping his armor on the shore he plunged straight into the river, drinking his fill and cleaning himself off in the process. Derek watched him for a moment, and then joined Leliana by the fire. Alistair was pitching a tent nearby, and Morrigan was sitting by one already erected a short distance away next to a small fire of her own.

"This camp belonged to some of the bandits we took care of," the Orlesian told him. "The tents were already here. I think we should take them with us." He nodded in agreement, and went to help Alistair with a third tent. He pondered the sleeping arrangements as they hammered pegs into the ground with stones. They now had two women in their company, and three men, with three tents. Ideally, Leliana would share with Morrigan, he would share with Alistair, and Sten- almost too large to cohabitate- could have a tent to himself. With Morrigan already distancing herself with one of the tents, however, that seemed unlikely- he did not doubt that the witch would set fire to the first person to insist she made room in her tent for a lay sister of the chantry. It would also be a poor idea to put Leliana, the smallest of the remaining four, with Sten, as it would make the woman uncomfortable and he did not yet know much of the qunari's character. Derek did not want to wake in the middle of the night to the sounds of raping and pillaging. No, either he or Alistair would have to share with Sten, and the other would share with Leliana. And they would always need someone on guard duty, so perhaps something could be arranged to minimize discomfort for everyone… And really, when it came down to it, they wouldn't _need_ the tents unless the weather was bad.

When the third and final tent was pitched, he returned to the fire with Alistair, where Leliana had what looked to be turtle soup bubbling in the animal's own cavernous shell. She grinned at him.

"He was sitting right on the river bank," she said, stirring the soup with a stick. "I thought he would make an excellent supper for us."

"Thank you, it smells incredible," Derek said, stomach rumbling. It seemed like all he wanted these days was food, food, and more food. Hungrily, he watched the concoction cook, patiently waiting. After some time, Sten joined them by the fire, sopping wet but satisfied. Morrigan did not even look at them from her own small campsite. Derek remembered what she had said earlier, about catching and playing with her food, and realized with a jolt that she was most likely a shape shifter, just as Flemeth was.

"So," Leliana started, breaking the silence. "You are both Grey Wardens?"

"Yes," Derek answered for both of them, wondering where she was taking this.

"How did you become Grey Wardens?" She rephrased.

"Sorry, trade secret," Alistair said, pulling his splintmail tunic over his head, and taking off the gambeson-padding to distribute the armor's weight more evenly- as well, leaving him in only a loose linen shirt and his trousers and boots. In some ways, without the bulky armor he seemed smaller, but also stronger- his muscles were made obvious without the metal plating obscuring them. Leliana stared at his arms for a second, but then blinked, and chose to watch her soup instead. Deciding it was done cooking, she pulled some wooden bowls from her pack, and poured some soup for each at their fire.

"Then… what of before? What did you do before you became Wardens?"

"Oh, much the same as I do now," Alistair told her airily, swirling the soup around his bowl in a circle while he waited for it to cool. "Eat a lot, sleep a lot, tell bad jokes. Although, I think I'm eating more now than before. Or I would be, if there was enough food!" Derek smiled in spite of himself. Leliana was trying to reword her question yet again.

"No, I meant- you know what I meant!" She gave up. Alistair laughed; out of the corner of his eye Derek saw Morrigan look over at the noise and scowl before standing and walking off into the night.

"Alright, alright. Let's see… In my case, I was in the Chantry before. I trained for many years to become a templar, in fact. That's where I learned most of my skills."

"You don't… seem like the religious sort," the Orlesian woman said carefully, her face neither approving nor disapproving.

"You're telling me!" Alistair laughed again, unoffended. "I was banished to the kitchens to scour the pots more times than I can count. And that's a lot; I can count pretty high." He grew more serious as he continued speaking. "The grand cleric didn't want to let me go. Duncan was forced to conscript me, actually, and was she ever furious when he did. I thought she was going to have us both arrested. I was lucky."

"You think Duncan took pity on you?" Derek found himself asking, trying to understand the man he had been suspicious of until the day he died.

"I don't know. Maybe. When he came looking for recruits, I just remember praying fervently to the Maker that he would pick me. I'll always be thankful to Duncan for recruiting me. If it hadn't been for him, you know, I would never… I wouldn't have…" Leliana bit her lip. She didn't know Alistair well enough to know what to say. Sten didn't seem to care; he was calmly sipping his soup across the fire from the woman. Derek turned his eyes from Alistair to the fire. He knew the other Warden's pain. His own loss haunted him.

"I'm sorry."

"No," Alistair said quickly, face contorting slightly as he remembered Duncan. "It's… I'm sorry. I shouldn't be… it's fine. He died a hero. They all did." He quickly swallowed the soup in his bowl, letting it scald his throat, and handed the wooden dish back to Leliana, for once short of words. "I'll take first watch," said Alistair, and he left their group to go stand on the outskirts of camp. Derek placed his own bowl of soup in the dirt next to the fire. He had barely eaten any of it, but somebody needed to talk to Alistair, and he felt obligated as the only other Warden, the only one in their party who also knew Duncan, and… well, he thought there was a friendship growing between them. It was forged in pain and loss, but it was there, something greater than simple comradery.

Groaning slightly, Derek stood up, and slowly walked over to stand by Alistair's side. He didn't look at the man, but he could hear him sniffling slightly in the dark.

"Do you want to talk about Duncan?"

"You don't have to do that," Alistair told him, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I know you didn't know him as long as I did."

"He was like a father to you. I understand." Although he did not have that bond with Duncan himself, the hero worship and craving for approval that Alistair showed towards the man was eerily reminiscent of Derek's relationship with Bryce Cousland. Except, _his_ father had reciprocated. The teyrn had loved him dearly, eve though he was not the eldest. He had taught him to fight, to hunt, had called him by that treasured, hated nickname…

"I… should have handled it better," Alistair was scolding himself. "Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn't have lost it, not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and... and everything. I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize." In all fairness, Alistair was reacting far better to Duncan's death than Derek had with his own family's. He was still numbed by it all, and everything still felt nightmarish and fake.

"I'd… like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we're still alive. I don't think he had any family to speak of."

"He had you." _He did not properly appreciate you, but he _had_ you._

"I suppose he did." Bitterness. "It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him." Derek finally looked over at Alistair, startled by the similarities in their grief.

"No," he responded slowly, self-loathing creeping into his voice. "I understand."

"Of course I'd be dead, then, wouldn't I? It's not like that would make him happier." They were quiet for a few minutes, both of them reflecting. Would Bryce have felt this way? Eleanor? They _did_ send him off with Duncan, but was it for his wellbeing, or so he could have revenge on Rendon Howe, or as he believed, to atone for his failings? Alistair's musings made him doubt his viewpoint slightly. It was _possible_ that he was wrong… but surely his parents knew that he would have nothing but his life after joining the Wardens. No. His purpose was to make amends. If he had been more vigilant, more skilled, then this could have been avoided, and now he owed the Maker a castle full of lives, plus interest.

"I think he came from Highever," Alistair murmured, staring out over the abandoned fields. "Maybe I'll go up out there sometime, see about putting up something in his honor. I don't know." He rubbed his eyes again, wearily this time, and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he turned his head and gazed questioningly at Derek, who was staring at his boots. "Have you… had someone close to you die? Not that I mean to pry, I'm just…"

He thought about telling him the story; about how he had woken up in the middle of the night to find his sister-in-law and nephew dead, his mother terrified, his home invaded. How the castle reeked of urine and blood and betrayal. How he had fought and killed for the first time, scared for his life, only to find his father dying and to lose both of his parents before he could even work out what was happening. He thought about it very hard, and at the last second, decided against.

"I've lost enough to know what you're going through." Alistair scrutinized his face, noting the sorrow all but permanently etched there.

"Yes, I… I imagine you really have, haven't you?... Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little." More silence, and Alistair looked away.

"Maybe I'll go to Highever with you, when you go," Derek offered. If they beat this Blight, it would probably be a few years down the road… perhaps then his emotional wounds would have healed over enough that he could revisit his birthplace, find his family's remains, and lay them properly to rest. Maybe by then he would be able to tell Alistair what had happened to his family without falling completely to pieces. Maybe, maybe…

"I'd like that," Alistair said. "So would he, I think."

They stood together for another long minute before Derek placed a comforting hand on Alistair's shoulder as he turned.

"I need to finish eating. I'll relieve you in a while."

Leliana did not talk to him when he returned to his place at the fire and picked up his bowl of now cold soup. She had watched them in the distance, of course, and had heard the low, muffled tones of their voices. This Duncan fellow… he must have been Alistair's relative, or a mentor maybe. The redhead examined Derek's face. He was staring into the fire again, looking much older than he really was. He, too, bore the look of one who had recently lost someone. Perhaps he was mourning for Duncan as well, in which case she didn't want to ask about him and upset the young Warden further. And yet, it was so gloomy, sitting silently around the fire.

"What did _you_ do before you became a Warden, Derek?" She asked at last.

"I'd rather not talk about it, Leliana." Not the right question, then. How awkward.

"Oh- okay, then, I am sorry if I have offended…"

"No, it's- it's just… difficult." He glanced at her a little alarmed, hoping for her to let it go. She took the hint.

"Would… would you like me to tell a story? I know many," Leliana offered out of nowhere.

"Were you a bard before you joined the Chantry?" Derek asked her, brow slightly furrowed. Bards… especially _Orlesian _bards… were bad news. They often doubled as spies and assassins. Seeing his face twitch with suspicion, Leliana immediately told him the contrary.

"No! I was a traveling minstrel, in Orlais. Tales and songs were my life. I performed, and they rewarded me with applause and coin."

"What of your skill in battle?"

"Ah- well, you pick up different skills when you travel, yes? Yes, of course. Er…" There was an uncomfortable pause; she had stumbled through her defense, and she could see that he hadn't bought it, but he humored her.

"Very well. Tell me your favorite tale, lady minstrel." She smiled at him, and thought for a moment. Should she tell of Aveline? Or perhaps of Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds? But he had asked for her favorite, so she took a deep breath, and proceeded to relate to him and the silent qunari the tale of Andraste. She told of how she had been chosen by the Maker as His Divine Bride due to her beauty and wisdom, and how she begged the Maker to return to Thedas and its people. She described Andraste's war with the Tevinter Imperium and their Old Gods, and how she was finally betrayed by her husband in the end, and burned alive as a martyr. Throughout the story, she noticed, Sten seemed to listen keenly, but Derek grew more and more detached, staring hatefully at the ground. At long last she finished her story. Derek blinked, and flashed her a small smile that did not meet his eyes.

"Thank you, Leliana. If you'll excuse me…" He rose once again, loping broodingly to Alistair and relieving him of his post. The near-templar yawned and stretched, and approached the fire. He picked up his discarded splintmail, and worked it between his hands, straightening the links and metal plates.

"I'm exhausted," he said to nobody in particular, and then he glanced between Leliana and Sten. "Derek says you can have one of the tents to yourself, Leliana."

"Thank you very much, but I'd much rather sleep beneath the stars," she said, blue eyes twinkling. Alistair shrugged.

"I'll take it, then. Sten, you can have the other one. Derek's sleeping outside as well. He'll come and get one of you when it's your turn for guard duty." He yawned again, and slurred a goodnight to them both before wandering off to one of the tents and collapsing into the bedroll laid out inside. He was asleep and snoring in a heartbeat.

"I will also retire," the qunari said, startling the minstrel. She watched him squeeze into the remaining tent, and sighed, stirring her fire and throwing another piece of wood on. Her gaze wandered back to Derek, who stood motionless on the border of their camp. He had one hand stretched over his shoulder, fingering the pommel of the longsword he carried. She had noticed him doing it before, back in the village; it seemed to be a tic of his whenever he got lost in thought.

He had relieved Alistair early, she knew. She also knew it was because he wanted to politely escape her. But _why_, she did not know. Did her religion make him uncomfortable? Or was it some other reason? Maybe if they got to know each other better on their journey, she would ask him. Or perhaps she could ask Alistair; the two of them seemed somewhat friendly with each other. Or she could leave them alone, probably the wisest option. She so very much wanted them to like her, though! And… well, she found Derek attractive. He was a shining example of tall, dark, and handsome. He was a little broody, yes, but that also held its appeal. But how inappropriate! Here she was, fresh out of the chantry, and thinking about pursuing a Grey Warden who was clearly in mourning.

She could wait. With a huff, she stood, and went to lay out her bedroll a short way from the campfire. Leaving on most of her armor and using her pack as a pillow, she curled up under her blanket, and drifted quickly to sleep.

oooooooooo

Derek had been staring into space when he heard a sudden noise in the darkness. It sounded like labored breathing, but not that of a human. There was a rustling in the tall grass, but he couldn't see anything. Quietly, he drew his sword, holding it with both hands as he stared out towards the source of the noises. More rustling, and the sound of feet- small, bare feet- sloshing through a mud puddle. He braced himself for an attack as the creature prowled into view.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Byron," he whispered, disbelievingly. The dog looked woefully up at him, eyes foggy, and with a keening whine, collapsed weakly at his feet. Derek dropped to his side, realizing something was horribly wrong. The mabari was not just panting, he was struggling for air. His lips were frothing with drool, and he had a dozen crusty wounds all over his body that smelled of infection. Without a second's delay, Derek spun around and screamed into the camp. "_Morrigan! Morrigan, come here!_" His companions jolted away. Leliana was the first by his side, keeping a few yards between her and the sick dog. Morrigan arrived thirty seconds later, hair disheveled and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her staff was in hand.

"What? What is it?" She asked sharply, thinking that perhaps they were under attack.

"Can you heal him?" Derek asked her desperately, pointing at Byron's limp body. Her mouth dropped open. She was insulted.

"You want me to heal that creature? 'Tis a _dog_!"

"_Please,_" he begged, frantically clutching at her skirt. "He is my dog! Please heal him!" She kicked him away, but deigned to move closer to Byron, her lips peeled back with disgust. She did not like dogs.

By then, Alistair and Sten appeared, Alistair in his armor, and Sten bare-chested. Both had their swords at the ready.

"What's going on?" Alistair asked, and then he saw the dog. Sten watched over his shoulder, disgruntled that he had been woken over something so trivial.

"_Please_, Morrigan," Derek asked her one last time, one hand stroking the hound's face. Her scowl softened some at his distress. He had always been courteous and decent to her. As much as she wanted to refuse him, she simultaneously did not want to drive him away. She found him… tolerable.

"Fine," she barked, raising her staff. "I will heal it. But this is the first and last time!" A pleasant blue light blossomed around the mabari, lapping gently at his injuries, claning up infections and knitting the flesh together. She frowned, though, when the dog still seemed sick when the process was complete.

"It had an illness I cannot cure," she said curtly. "I have done all I can."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, resting a hand on his squatting friend's shoulder. "If he's swallowed too much darkspawn blood… I don't think there's anything we can do, Derek. I'm sorry."

But something Alistair said sent Derek into a frenzy. The man jumped up and positively ran across camp to where his pack was lying against a tent. He searched frantically through it, and laughed until he cried when he pulled out a dried leaf, folded over itself and tied up. Holding it carefully before him, he returned to the dog's side, and unwrapped the leaf to reveal a wilted white blossom. His hand trembled as he held it in front of Byron's muzzle. The dog looked at it, and weakly glanced up at his master.

"You need to eat it, it might help you," Derek urged the dog, and it weakly took the flower in his jaws, but could not swallow. The flower fell back out of his mouth. "It- it's okay, I'll help you, boy…" He rolled the hound onto his stomach and lifted his head. He opened Byron's mouth and pushed the slimy flower as far back as he could, then rubbed the dog's throat as he tried to swallow again. This time the flower went down. "Good boy… good boy…" Eyes red, Derek looked up at Sten, who was still standing by. "Sten, will you help me carry him near the fire?" The qunari considered, and then nodded. Before Derek could help, he leaned down at Byron's side and lifted the whole dog in his arms. Byron growled feebly at him until the giant put him down again a few yards from the fire.

"Stay with him," Leliana said softly, kneeling down next to him. "I will finish your watch and take mine." Derek muttered a distracted thanks, and laid out his bedroll next to the hound.

"I thought you were dead, Byron," he told the dog. Byron whimpered, as if to say that he had thought his master was dead, too. "I guess you saw Flemeth taking me from Ostagar… But how did you find me? Did you just guess which way we would travel?" He got no answer. The dog let out a heavy breath and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep. Derek sighed a shuddering breath of his own, and laid down on the bedroll, staring up and past the sky, to wherever the Maker was hiding.

_What are you playing at?_

oooooooooo

_There was an army gathering in a huge trench. They held angry red torches over their heads, and bellowed as a unit. It took a moment for him to realize that these were darkspawn, and not men. His vision blurred as he seemed to fly up and back, narrowly missing colliding with an old stone bridge that stretched across the ravine- or did he pass through it? There was a screaming roar, and a black dragon crashed down onto the bridge, perching on its edge and shrieking orders to its minions below. It spat out a swath of tainted purple flame, and sniffed the air. Then it swiveled its bony head back to peer under its wing, and it saw him, and it saw _through_ him, and it wanted nothing but for him to die-_

"Bad dreams, huh?" Alistair's voice called him out of the Fade, and he woke with a start, sweat beading on his forehead. It was light out; the sun was rising in the hills across the river. Alistair was sitting by the ashes of last night's campfire, chewing on a stale biscuit and watching him.

"It seemed so real…"

"Well, it is real, sort of. You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was. Hearing them. The archdemon, it… 'talks' to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

"Why didn't Duncan just tell everyone that?" Maybe the king wouldn't have died, if Duncan had only informed him properly, rather than speaking in riddles and leaving himself backdoors out of conversations by means of cleverly placed 'maybe's and 'possible's.

"He _did_. He said he felt the archdemon's presence. Everyone just assumed he was guessing. It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens say they can understand the archdemon a bit, but I sure can't. Anyhow, when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me, too." The templar looked for a moment like he regretted his word choice, suggesting that Derek might be afraid of something- egad!- and he broke eye contact.

"Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it." The dreams truly were horrendous. Scary was an understatement. The dread the nightmare instilled in him… It was beyond comprehension.

"That's what I'm here for. To deliver unpleasant news and witty one-liners. Anyhow, you're up now, right? Let's pull up camp and get a move on."

"How is Byron?"

"Oh, right, your mabari! He's made an incredible improvement overnight. That flower you gave him… It really looks like it's worked," Alistair said, daring to smile. As if on cue, Byron trotted out from behind a tent and up to his master, grinning and wagging his stumpy tail. Derek grabbed his cheeks sternly.

"You're still recovering, dog! Don't push yourself too hard." Byron kept panting happily at him, and Derek broke down and grabbed him around his neck and chest in a bear hug. "Don't do that to me again. You're all I have left, you damn mutt," he told the dog, his words muffled in his bristly fur. Byron barked eagerly, and nuzzled Derek back far enough to lick him sloppily on the face.

"Agh, quit that! Your breath smells like darkspawn!"

"Do you regret my healing it, yet?" Morrigan asked as she passed by, rolling her eyes at the overjoyed dog and owner.

"Thank you, Morrigan. I am sorry I did not thank you properly last night. I was… preoccupied."

"'Twas nothing," she responded, "But do not expect a repeat performance." And she prowled onward to tear down her tent and repack her belongings.

"We need a mule," Derek said, realizing all that they would have to carry. "Leliana!" The redhead was washing her face in the river, but she paused and looked up at her name. "Are there any mules to be found in Lothering?"

"No," she called back. "The only people with mules already took them north. There are no beasts larger than dogs left."

"Then we'll just have to carry what we can," Derek resigned. He wasn't sure that they could carry all three tents with them. They could try, though.

An hour later, and camp was pulled up and packed away. Each party member had a bulging pack and a bedroll on their shoulders; even Byron had a satchel modified at the last minute to fasten around his neck and waist. They were pleasantly surprised to find that they could carry all of the tents with them. It helped that Sten had volunteered to carry over twice as much as any other person in their company.

"At last we move on!" Morrigan said, sick of Lothering and its countryside. She took the lead with Derek and Byron, Alistair just behind them. Leliana trotted alongside the templar. Sten lumbered at the rear, looking very much like a pack animal with all the gear fastened to his back. In less than ten minutes they came upon the Imperial Highway again, but something felt off to Derek. He glanced back at Alistair, whose brow was furrowed with concentration. So they both felt it. Darkspawn.

He burst into a sprint when he heard cries for help up on the road. He bolted up the ramp, Alistair, Sten, and Byron alongside him, to see a group of hurlocks looming over a pair of dwarves and their donkey-pulled cart. Derek drew his blades and set to work, hacking and slashing artfully at his foe. Byron and Sten worked together; the qunari was strong, but slow, so the dog would latch onto a darkspawn's leg and anchor him so Sten could swing his heavy blade with success. Alistair lunged through the crowd, stabbing at anything with green skin and evil breath.

Finally the last one fell, and there was a heaving sigh of relief from behind them.

"Mighty timely arrival, my friend!" The elder dwarf breathed, helping the other up from the ground. "I'm much obliged."

"You're welcome," said Derek, wondering why a pair of dwarves were wandering the roads this far south with all the darkspawn out and about.

"The name's Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur," introduced the dwarf with a flourish and a bow. "This here is my son, Sandal. Say hello, my boy."

"Hello," Sandal said. He had a round, pleasant face. He sounded simple.

"Road's been mighty dangerous these days," Bodahn went on. "Mind if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we're going the same way." Derek thought about it for a minute. They could certainly use a merchant on the long haul, with the kind of loot they pulled in and supplies they would need on a regular basis.

"It's a bit complicated, but you're welcome to come along." Sten made a disapproving noise behind him, but said nothing.

"Complicated?" The dwarf laughed, and shook his head. Sandal continued smiling. "Somehow, I imagine that only says the half of it. Thank you for the offer, but there may be more excitement on your path than is good for my boy and me. Allow me to bid you farewell and good fortune," he said, bowing again.

"Goodbye," said Sandal.

"Now then," Bodahn told his son in a businesslike voice, returning to their savaged cart and its spilled goods. "Let's get this mess cleaned up, shall we?"

"You just wanted to be able to use their cart," Alistair accused lightheartedly, low enough that the dwarf couldn't hear them. Derek let a barely-detectable smirk grace his lips. He was in a surprisingly good mood with the return of his loyal hound.

"Perhaps- wait, did we kill a mage just now?" He was looking down at one of the bodies amidst the dead darkspawn. There among them was a dead woman in enchanter's robes, her throat slit.

"I think I would remember," Alistair said, puzzled, "and I don't remember."

Derek patted the body down, and felt something in a built in pocket. He reached in and pulled out a tattered piece of vellum. He squinted at it, and tucked it away.

"She was a blood mage," he declared. "Morrigan, do you want her robe? It's probably enchanted to enhance your powers."

"No, thank you," the witch said loftily. "I will obtain my own clothing at my leisure. And as for my powers, they do not need enhancing."

"Yes, we should keep her weak so we can get rid of her when she tries to kill one of us," Alistair reasoned, giving her a dark look. She frowned at him.

"Do not tempt me, boy!"

"Boy? I am _sure_ I'm older than _you_… girl."

""This conversation is not conducive to fighting darkspawn," Sten suddenly growled, silencing them both. "We should move on."

"I agree," Derek said, thankful already that he had freed the qunari. "Let's get going." And they continued north along the road, with their leader more hopeful than he had been in almost two weeks.

oooooooooo

_a/n: I just love Dog too much to let him go. He and Alistair are my two favorite companions (Awakening companions excluded), with Shale and Zevran close behind. Morrigan and Sten, I'm afraid I'm not too fond of. And Wynne just kind of annoys me. Alas, mages are necessary, so I always have either Morrigan or Wynne in my party, as I typically play as a rogue. Leliana I just plain dislike. She seems nice, but she grates on me._

_And now you know._


	10. Redcliffe's Sorrows

Redcliffe was a two day journey from Lothering along the West Road, and a good team-building experience for the Wardens' rapidly growing party. By the time they settled down for the night on the southern shore of Lake Calenhad's isthmus, there was steady conversation within the group, and only some of it was bickering.

Sten had exchanged a few concise lines with Morrigan on the treatment of mages; he was of the opinion that they should be leashed and muted, and she glowered at him while she countered with her preference for freedom, although there was a noticeable lack of her usual venom in her tone. Apparently, she could be cowed, and it took only an eight foot tall warrior with a new broadsword to do it.

Ahead of them in the procession, Alistair had exchanged stories of cloister life with Leliana; she had found the peace and quiet in the chantry perfect for reflection and worship, but Alistair had despised it, and found various ways to amuse himself growing up that resulted in most of his superiors greatly disliking him. He laughed wistfully as he recalled some of the pranks he had pulled on the affirmed Templars and priests, and Leliana had giggled in spite of herself at the stories. Derek only listened and smiled, glad for the brief distraction from the oppressive mission that ever loomed in his mind. He did not know what they would find when they reached Redcliffe, or if the town would even be there when they arrived. The rumors hinted at an unstoppable, strengthening horde of _something_ that would swamp the settlement each night. It had been stressed to him by Danal the Barkeep that they were _not_ darkspawn, and were much harder to kill. This he had learned from a Redcliffe warrior on his way to Ostagar. Derek was concerned, to say the least, and that was without even considering the Arl's condition. It was possible that the man was already dead. For Alistair's sake, and for the sake of Fereldan, he hoped not.

There was a wet nudge at his hand, and Derek looked down, roused from his brooding. Byron was staring up at him, plodding alongside his master. He seemed concerned by Derek's prolonged silence. The human patted the hound on the head, unsmiling. No matter how hard he tried to ignore them, his worries always slipped back into the forefront of his mind, constantly reminding him of his dues to the Maker, lest he forget for even a second. A sigh escaped him, and he turned to his fellow Grey Warden for further distraction.

"So you said this Arl Eamon raised you?" he asked quietly as Alistair came close by. Leliana had apparently dropped back to pester Morrigan about her religious beliefs, or lack thereof.

"Did I say that? I meant that dogs raised me. Giant, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels. A whole pack of them, in fact." Ah, the humor shield makes its appearance again. Derek did not mind. It was… diverting, in more way than one.

"That would explain the smell." To be fair, though, none of them smelled pleasant but Leliana, who, when asked about it, had smirked and said that she always kept fresh flowers in her brassiere to stay smelling fresh. Derek wasn't sure if she was serious or kidding. Alistair had pondered it for a moment, and then his ears went red. The witch had huffed at the discovery. Morrigan did no such thing; she smelled strongly of earth and sweat, and while it was not an entirely unpleasant smell, it was not incredibly enjoyable either.

"Well, it wasn't until I was eight that I discovered you didn't have to lick yourself clean. Old habits die hard, you know."

"That would explain the breath as well, then." Derek blamed the bad breath on all the cheese Alistair ate. Somehow, the man could procure it seemingly from thin air. Maybe he had a secret store of it in his armor or something, since the Cousland was almost certain he wasn't taking it from his pack.

"And my table manners, too. Though, come to think of it, they weren't all that different from the other templars. Or did I dream all of that? Funny the dreams you'll have when you sleep on the cold, hard ground, isn't it?" Still deflecting, then. And he had hoped to glean some useful information about the Arl from this conversation, too. Vaguely, he wondered why Alistair was so reluctant to talk about his childhood… Oh, well. It couldn't hurt to coax him a little.

"I'm going to hit you. Very soon, now."

"You would do violence? Upon me? I am shocked and dismayed. The dogs would never threaten me like this, you know." Alistair placed both hands over his heart, pouting and smirking simultaneously in the way only he could. Then, he seemed to sober up slightly, and his hands dropped to his sides as he walked. "Let's see. How do I explain this? I'm a bastard. And before you make any smart comments," he said, eying Derek's face sharply and stopping him just as he opened his mouth, "I mean the _fatherless_ kind. My mother was a serving girl in Redcliffe Castle who died when I was very young. Arl Eamon wasn't my father, but he took me in anyhow and put a roof over my head. He was good to me, and he didn't have to be. I respect the man and I don't blame him any more for sending me off to the Chantry once I was old enough."

"Why did he send you off to the Chantry?" It seemed an odd thing to do. Why raise young Alistair himself, then? Surely it would be a wasted decade for the arl, if he did not intend to keep the child.

"Arl Eamon eventually married a young woman from Orlais, which caused all sorts of problems between him and the king because it was so soon after the war. But he loved her. Anyhow, the new arlessa resented the rumors which pegged me as his bastard. They weren't true, but of course they existed. The arl didn't care, but she did. So off I was packed to the nearest monastery at age ten," he said vehemently, flicking the fingers of his right hand in a shooing motion. "Just as well. The arlessa made sure the castle wasn't a home to me by that point. She _despised_ me." An odd combination of emotion flitted across Alistair's face: tenderness, bitterness, and oddly enough, understanding.

"That's despicable," Derek found himself saying, frowning and furrowing his brow. Both the arl _and_ the arlessa… he found their actions awful. Leading Alistair on for ten years only to trade him for a woman's confidence was just as bad as the arlessa's abuse of his emotions.

"Maybe," conceded Alistair with a small shrug. "She felt threatened by my presence, I can see that now. I can't say I blame her. She wondered if the rumors were true herself, I bet." They walked quietly together for a few seconds before Alistair spoke again, thinking aloud. "I remember I had an amulet with Andraste's holy symbol on it. The only thing I had of my mother's. I was so furious at being sent away I tore it off and threw it at the wall and it shattered. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The arl came by the monastery a few times to see how I was, but I was stubborn. I hated it there and blamed him for everything… and eventually he just stopped coming."

"You were young." _And you had good reason to be angry. You were not sent to squire, like some noble-raised children. You were cast away into the Chantry, where you could never have the one thing you seem to want most- family._

"And raised by dogs. Or I may as well have been, the way I acted. But maybe all young bastards act like that, I don't know. All I know is that the arl is a good man and well-loved by the people. He also was King Cailan's uncle, so he has a personal motivation to see Loghain pay for what he did. Anyway… that's really all there is to the story."

The story left Derek unhappier than before. With each new shred of information about Alistair's upbringing, it became clearer why he turned out how he did. He had never had a stable mentor, and so he craved one, giving his all in return for scraps: a few seconds of attention, or a couple kind words… It was a tragedy and an outrage. Alistair deserved more than he had ever gotten.

When night fell and all were simply too tired to keep the pace, they established their camp near the water, hidden from the road in a small valley. Sten volunteered to go hunting, and Derek and Byron went with, leaving Leliana and Alistair to start the fire and pitch the tents. Morrigan continued to remove herself from the group, quickly readying her own campsite nearby.

After a long couple of hours following a game trail through the thin forest, the hunting party happened upon a healthy, bright-eyed doe. A well-aimed arrow from Derek pierced her flank, and she froze, pained and confused. Then she bolted, and after a short chase, collapsed. Sten hoisted the beast up onto his back, draping the legs over his shoulders how a shepherd carries a wandering sheep. Byron bounded happily at their heels as they returned to camp victorious.

Leliana was waiting there for them, eyes and ears peeled for unwanted company. When she heard them approaching, she drew both daggers, sheathing them again only when she made visual contact with them. She grinned at the sight of the deer. They hadn't eaten very well the night before- one turtle can only go so far- and the others were even hungrier, having been living on rations (or in the qunari's case, nothing) for weeks at a time. They made quick work of dressing the doe, slicing off good meat and throwing the rest back into the trees for carrion birds. Somewhere along the line, a haunch was tossed to Byron, who quickly snapped it up and wandered off to eat it in privacy. Soon enough, the rest of the venison was cooking on the blaze Leliana had built up, filling the air with its delicious, savory aroma.

"Ah, that smells wonderful," remarked Alistair, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. He and the others (minus Morrigan, who was stirring something in a small pot at her own fire) were all holding spits over the flames, watching raw purple meat cook brown.

"Eat your fill, and we'll save what we can afterwards," Derek said, also enjoying the bouquet. He was starving. As soon as his first piece of venison was cooked, he ate it straight off the spit, tearing into the meat eagerly. All the others did the same; Alistair and Sten eagerly, and Leliana a little more reserved. No doubt, the act of eating meat off of a stick struck her as undignified and unladylike, but her hunger prevailed. The giant positively gorged himself on the meat. This was his first proper, unrationed meal in a fortnight. When they had all eaten their fill, the leftover meat was cooked and wrapped up in prairie dock leaves. There was enough to sustain their group for half a week more, if Redcliffe revealed itself to be inhospitable and they could not restock on supplies.

The following dawn, they rose as a group, Alistair complaining of nightmares, and Derek feeling his pain. The archdemon and its horde in the ravine plagued his sleep. The dreams- realities?- left them both feeling very unrested. The others, however, had slept quite well after the drudgery of the day before, and between Sten's blunt urgings and Leliana's constant perkiness, they were both pulled out of bed, dressed up in their armor, and set back on the road.

So on they walked.

The next eight hours were tiresome, monotonous. At some point, it had begun to rain lightly, and they trudged along in the mud, cold and wet. All were miserable, except for Morrigan, who had cast some sort of clear magical barrier above herself when the drizzle began falling and managed to stay dry. She followed them smugly, a proud smile playing at her lips. None of the others noticed, however, as she traveled at the back of their group.

Gradually, the terrain changed from forest to foothills, and the road wound more, climbing slopes at a gentle angle rather than straight-on. Leafy trees gave way to conifers and tough barky shrubs. The air grew noticeably colder, but the breeze also died away, blocked by the mountainous topography of the area.

"There!" Alistair said at long last, that afternoon, breaking the silence. He pointed at a castle parapet peeking from behind the steep hill before them. "We're nearly there, it's just over this hill." He looked tense to Derek, both eager and reluctant to return to his childhood home.

When they got to the top of the hill and could look down on Redcliffe, Alistair touched Derek's arm, snagging his attention. Worry was plain as day on his face, but worry about _what_? The darker haired Warden waved to the others to carry on down the path without them, and turned to Alistair again, listening.

"Look, can we talk for a moment? I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier." He was wiping rain off his brow, and perhaps sweat as well.

"What's on your mind?"

"I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in? The reason he did that was because…. Well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose."

"Oh." Well… that explained why he resembled the late king, at any rate. Maric's blood must have run strong in both of them. The physical resemblance, similarities in demeanor… They even shared a love and fascination with Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Things Derek had only started to put together back at his Joining all suddenly fell into place. "So… you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?"

"Ha! Yes, I guess it does at that. I should use that line more often." His mirth quickly faded. "I would have told you, but… it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule and so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone. Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me… even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible. I'm sorry." That was why they had _both_ been sent to light the beacon, then. Derek wondered if Cailan knew of their relation, and what he thought of his brother. He would be slightly jealous, of that Derek was sure- Cailan had loved being king, it seemed, but he loved the Wardens even more. That his own brother- albeit _half_ brother- was a Warden must have fascinated him.

"I… I think I understand." How could he not? He hadn't told his companions of his own noble lineage, either, and had no plans to. Alistair sighed, relieved. His shoulders slumped, the tension falling away.

"Good. I'm glad. It's not like I got special treatment for it, anyhow. At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it."

"Are you sure? You're not hiding anything else?"

"Besides my unholy love of fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing."

"So should I be calling you Prince Alistair?" It was said with a tiny smile, but it was also a serious question. It caught the senior Warden off guard, though, and he clutched at his chest reflexively.

"No! Maker's breath, just hearing that would give me a heart attack! It's not true, anyhow… I'm the son of a commoner. It was always made clear that the throne is not in my future. And that's fine by me. No, if there's an heir to be found, it's Arl Eamon himself. He's not of royal blood, but he is Cailan's uncle… and more importantly, very popular with the people. Though… if he's really as sick as we've heard…" Alistair blinked, and looked out over the city. "No, I don't want to think about that. I really don't. So there you have it. Now we can move on, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some… nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

"As you command… my prince." Derek bowed, grinning at Alistair's dismay.

"Oh, lovely. I'm going to regret this. Somehow I just know it."

All in all, though, he seemed glad to have it off his chest. There was a bounce in his step as he descended the hill, Derek following. It was obvious why the topic had been brought up, now. If they did talk to Eamon, Derek suspected that Alistair might be suggested to take up the throne. Not that it was the best idea he had ever heard. Alistair did not want to be king; he made it clear that he preferred to follow, and was not eager to follow in his father and brother's footsteps. He was also a Grey Warden. Once Joined, the Warden loses his titles. Alistair may have Theirin blood, but his obligation was to the Wardens, not to Fereldan. And, of course… it was not known if he even had the makings of a good king.

Derek pondered the matter as he approached the rest of his party, who were waiting for him at the bottom of the hill. _He_ thought Alistair had the mettle and heart to make a good ruler, but Alistair himself likely did not. He would defeat himself if he did not start appreciating his own worth.

"There is a man on the bridge," Leliana said, breaking his chain of thought. He followed her gaze. So there was. He was dressed in a tunic, but there was a dagger at his side and a bow hanging at his back. He was watching them carefully. A guard? A militiaman? His longbow was still at his back, and he didn't seem at all hostile.

"Let's not keep him, then" he said, squaring his jaw. "Alistair, Morrigan, and Leliana, come with me. Byron, stay here with Sten for now and guard our packs." Upon separating the party, he led his division over to the archer on the bridge.

"I... I thought I saw travelers coming down the road, though I scarcely believed it. Have you come to help us?" There was a glimmer of hope in the man's eyes, thinly veiling his anxiety.

"We're here on important business. We need to see Arl Eamon."

"The arl?" asked the militiaman- he was too antsy to be a regular guard. "Then… you don't know? Has nobody out there heard?"

"I've heard Arl Eamon is sick, if that's what you mean," Derek said. "And I've heard the Redcliffe is having problems with some sort of monster."

"Monsters, plural! The arl could be dead for all we know. Nobody's heard from the castle in days. The monsters- they come out there every night and attack us until dawn. Everyone's been fighting… and dying. We've no army to defend us, no arl and no king to send us help. So many are dead, and those left are terrified they're next…"

"Apparently," Morrigan drawled, putting a hand on her hip, "everybody seems to agree that a Blight is the perfect time to start killing each other. Marvelous, really." The militiaman stared at her, perhaps failing to sense her sardonic tone, or perhaps having just come to the realization that she was showing a _lot_ of skin. Alistair scowled at Morrigan.

"What is this evil that's attacking you?" The archer blinked and looked to Alistair.

"I… I don't rightly know; I'm sorry. Nobody does. I should take you to Bann Teagan. He's all that's holding us together. He'll want to see you." Something like surprise and a hint of delight appeared on Alistair's face.

"Bann Teagan? Arl Eamon's brother? He's here?"

"Yes. It's not far, if you'll come with me."

"In a moment." Derek glanced back to the qunari and his hound, both obediently standing guard over the whole party's belongings. "I think we're going to need the rest of our group."

oooooooooo

Militiamen and civilians alike stared at them as they wandered through the outskirts of Redcliffe towards the Chantry, where the militia watchman Tomas told them Bann Teagan had made his base of operations. The likes of their motley crew had never been seen before.

Tomas led them down slopes, past a windmill and a line of archers. A drill sergeant was barking at them to get their form right. Melee fighters stood nearby, sharpening weapons and bludgeoning straw dummies with maces and clubs. The town was silent but for those sounds, and the swoosh of the lake gently lapping the docks. It felt very eerie, very wrong.

They were led into the Chantry. It had been modified and reinforced; now resembling a small keep more than a temple. The pews had all been stacked haphazardly in one side hallway, blocking it off entirely. The left hall was apparently being used to keep track of the children. Other villagers wandered throughout the small building, muttering and weeping.

There was one man who was not retreating into misery. At the front of the chantry, standing where the priest would on any other occasion, was Bann Teagan. Derek was surprised to note that he was quite young; perhaps only fifteen years or so older than he. He knew the arl was getting on in years, and had expected the same of the bann. Of course, Derek had no way of knowing- his father had met the both of them, but he had met neither.

Teagan stepped forward to meet them when he saw them approaching.

"It's Tomas, yes? And who are these people with you? They're obviously not simple travelers." His wary eyes wandered from Tomas to Sten, lingered on Morrigan and Leliana each for a long second, and then flicked over the rest of the group.

"No, my lord. They just arrived, and I thought you would want to see them." Teagan nodded, and excused the militiaman.

"Well done, Tomas. Greetings, friends. My name is Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere, brother to the arl."

"I remember you, Bann Teagan," Alistair mentioned from the window between Derek and Leliana. "Though the last time we met I was a lot younger and… covered in mud."

"Covered in mud?" Teagan stared at Alistair for a moment, squinting, and then it dawned on him. "Alistair? It is you, isn't it? You're alive! This is wonderful news!" Alistair smiled, but it was slightly acerbic, and his eyes dropped to the brick floor.

"Still alive, yes, though I'm just as surprised about that as you are, believe me."

"Indeed," Teagan responded, expression darkening as he continued. "Loghain would have us believe all Grey Wardens died along with my nephew, amongst other things."

"What else has he said?" Derek asked, speaking up for the first time. The bann regarded him gravely.

"That Loghain pulled out his own men in order to save them. That Cailan risked the entire nation's safety in the name of glory. Loghain calls the Grey Wardens traitors, murderers of the king. I don't believe it. It is an act of a desperate man." He contemplated the issue a moment longer before addressing the junior Warden again. He was squinting at Derek this time, as if trying to match a name to his face. "So… you are a Grey Warden as well? Is it possible we've met? You seem very familiar." Of course. Teagan had met Teyrn Cousland. He had been told a thousand times growing up that he looked just like Bryce did… no, had. Just like he _had_. Past tense.

"You… must be mistaken. We've never met," he mumbled. His discomfort went unacknowledged except for the quirk of Teagan's brow.

"Ah, then forgive me for being presumptuous. You're here to see my brother? Unfortunately, that might be a problem. Eamon is gravely ill. No one has heard from the castle in days. No guards patrol the walls, and no one has responded to my shouts." The man sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "The attacks stared a few nights ago. Evil… things… surged from the castle. We drove them back, but many perished during the assault."

"What evil things are you talking about?" The ambiguity surrounding the attackers was most unhelpful.

"Some call them the walking dead; decomposing corpses returning to life with a hunger for human flesh…" Sten made a ritual warding sign with his hand, and muttered something in the Qun. Morrigan rolled her eyes. "They hit again the next night. Each night they come, with greater numbers. With Cailan dead and Loghain starting a war over the throne, no one responds to my urgent calls for help. I have a feeling tonight's assault will be the worst yet. Alistair-" he beseeched the Warden imploringly, "I hate to ask, but I desperately need the help of you and your friends." Conflicted, Alistair held up his hands, shaking his head.

"It isn't just up to me. Though the Grey Wardens don't stand much chance against Loghain without Arl Eamon." All eyes turned to Derek, who contemplated the situation. Alistair had a point. Even if they mustered an army of mages, dwarves, and Dalish elves, it wouldn't be enough. The people of Fereldan would be too cautious of the alien force, and if Loghain asked it of them, they would leap to fight the Warden's army. No, they needed Redcliffe soldiers, if only to keep Fereldan on their side. Also, if the arl and his family, locked in the castle with the source of the undead, were already deceased… Bann Teagan would become Arl Teagan. By refusing to help now, they might destroy any chances of receiving aid. What Teagan proposed was dangerous, and would set them back at least a day or two, but it was unfortunately necessary.

"We'll help." Morrigan immediately began complaining about the deed. Sten glowered at her, dimly wondering if the Warden would punish him for cutting her tongue out. Nobody else heard her, though. Teagan had lit up with hope and gratitude.

"Thank you! Thank you, this… means more to me than you can guess. Tomas, please tell Murdock what has transpired. Then return to your post." Tomas saluted, and walked away. "Now then. There is much to do before night falls. I've put two men in charge of the defense outside. Murdock, the village mayor, is outside the chantry. Ser Perth, one of Eamon's knights, is just up the cliff at the windmill, watching the castle. You may discuss with them the preparations for the coming battle."

"Yes, my lord," Derek said, bowing slightly.

"Very well. Luck be with you, my friend."

oooooooooo

Murdock was easy to find; he was at the center of a cluster of reserve soldiers, reporting and receiving orders. When the crowd thinned, he waved them over. His gruff, gravely voice did not suit his mellow personality as he related to them what he knew. The militia was gathered, but morale was low, and there were couple problems he needed solved before nightfall.

One problem's name was Owen. The man was the town blacksmith, and his daughter was a serving girl for Lady Isolde in the castle. Unfortunately, she had been up there when all the trouble started, and Owen broke down. He refused to serve Redcliffe's militia unless Murdock and his men went on a suicide mission to rescue her. He needed to be convinced to open shop again, or Redcliffe didn't stand a chance.

Derek designated that task to Leliana. He figured that the blacksmith would be more open to talking to a young sister of the chantry than a Grey Warden. She set off immediately to knock on the smithy's door and try to wheedle her way in. Derek had other fish to fry.

The other problem was a dwarf by the name of Dwyn. He was a merchant, but he used to be a warrior in Orzammar, and even now he was skilled with a blade and had a pair of guards on retainer. His presence on the battlefield would raise the spirits of all those fighting However, Dwyn flat out refused to help fight, preferring to wait it out locked up in his house.

This, in Derek's opinion, would not do.

He took Sten, Alistair, and Byron with him to Dwyn's house. Morrigan had wandered off when he wasn't looking, but it was probably for the best that she did not come. He did not mind her as a person, but her constant complaining about his decisions grew annoying. Besides; the Wardens seemed more intimidating without the scantily clad mage.

Dwyn's house was on the lake shore, hidden behind some larger buildings. It took them a few minutes to find it, and when they knocked, there was no answer. Derek knocked a second time, and scowled as nobody answered, but somebody inside cleared his throat.

"Hello?" he called through the thick wood door. Alistair shifted his weight, impatient. There was no reply. "Open the door or I break it down," Derek warned, and counted silently to ten. When the time ran out and there wasn't so mucha s the sound of footsteps inside, he sighed, stepped back, and slammed one booted foot down over the lock. There was a splintering sound, and after a second kick, the door flung pen under the force, slivers of wood flying from the battered latch. The dwarf stood inside, flanked by his mercenaries.

"Wonderful. Intruders. I hope you've a good reason for breaking and entering into my home."

"Sorry about your door," Derek growled, already fed up with the dwarf, "but I _did_ warn you."

"Apology accepted. The name's Dwyn, pleased to meet you. Now get out."

The pair glared at each other, both of their hands snaking for weapons. The two Chasind thugs warily eyed Derek's companions, eyes always returning to the big qunari in the rear.

"What are you doing shut up in here?" asked the Warden conversationally, as his fingers found his sword's hilt and rested there.

"Surviving," Dwyn grumbled in reply, his own stocky digits curling around the pommel of the sword on his belt. "We have supplies to last for quite some time, and my boys and I can swing a weapon better than any of those fools out there." Derek's blood positively boiled. This dwarf would leave his own neighbors to die without a qualm. His cavalier attitude grated on him.

"You will not fight for your home?"

"Home?" the dwarf laughed. "This isn't my home, it's where I _live_. And I plan to keep on living, not die with those dumb nugs. Now get out."

"They aren't just fighting for themselves. They're fighting for all of Redcliffe. Which includes you."

"Then they're bigger fools than I thought!" There was a heavy silence as Derek became visibly outraged, and then reigned himself in, eyes narrowing venomously. This dwarf was no better than the 'toll collectors' on the highway, or the war profiteer in Lothering. No- he was _worse_. Through his inaction, people would die. It was traitorous, to betray one's city that way. And there was _nothing_ worse than a traitor.

"See, Dwyn-" Derek wrapped his hand around the sword's grip and drew it an inch from its scabbard. "I don't like your attitude. But, I'm willing to make you a deal. You can go out and fight with the militia. Or, you can stay here and die at my blade." The dwarf snarled, and both he and the Warden drew their swords simultaneously, with all the companions and bodyguards close behind. Alistair seemed slightly… alarmed.

"I've had enough of you strutting around like you own the place. C'mon, boys. This ends now!" And then Dwyn charged Derek, who jumped aside, forgetting that Sten stood behind him. It didn't much matter; Dwyn's blade glanced off of the qunari's plate armor, leaving him open to a counter attack. A moment later, a dwarf was sailing across the room and into the wall.

Alistair and Byron were too busy to notice. They were tackling one of the mercenaries together. The Chasind was fast, and fought similarly to Derek. He could dodge Alistair's slower attacks and jab at him with his own dagger, biting into unarmored parts of his body. Blood ran from under his arm, and from his inner thigh. With the dog's help, though, he was taken down. The mabari took advantage of its massive power and dragged the man screaming to the floor.

"I surrender!" the mercenary wailed, wrestling free of the dog and running from the house. The other thug, who had been fighting Sten, saw him run, stood motionless in thought for a moment, and bolted after him. Alistair watched them go, glad that he wouldn't have to kill him, but he jerked to attention when he heard the distinct, sickening sound of metal scraping against bone. Derek had just plunged his blade through the fleshy gap behind Dwyn's collar bone, and down through his heart. The merchant sputtered and died, leaving Derek standing over him, grim satisfaction bringing a smile to his lips.

"What- you-" Alistair stuttered, shocked. The dwarf had been disarmed; he was no longer dangerous and could have been spared. But the Warden had just slaughtered him for no reason! "Why did you kill him? He didn't have to die!"

"He was a traitor," Derek spat, squatting down over the warm body and searching it for valuables. Finding a bronze key, he passed it to the silent qunari. "Here, find what this goes to. If there's anything valuable, or any weapons or armor the militia can use, take it." Sten took the key, and began searching the room, staying out of the argument.

"This is wrong, Derek," Alistair said. "The only reason he even fought us in the first place is because you kicked in his door and threatened his life!"

"He had to die! There was no other option! If he wasn't willing to fight for Redcliffe, then he clearly wouldn't have minded reporting us to Loghain after we've saved it! He would have sold him information and went on his merry way, and if Loghain finds us, it's all over. Fereldan will fall to the Blight." Derek surprised himself with his reasoning. He hadn't been thinking about it when he killed Dwyn… he had just _done_ it. The dwarf was a traitor to Redcliffe, and that had been enough to send him over the edge. Now, looking back, he realized that this situation would have to be smoothed over, both with Alistair and with Murdock. He had been foolish to act on an impulse.

"I…" Alistair started, unable to argue with the logic. He frowned, and exhaled slowly, looking at anything but the other Warden. "I still don't like it. It doesn't feel right."

"Whatever it takes, Alistair." At the familiar phrase, Alistair looked up again, but Derek was staring at Sten, who had just emerged from a side room with a beautiful greatsword in hand, and a reverant, awed expression on his face.

"_Asala_," the giant breathed.

"Is that the sword you lost?" asked Derek, admiring it from a distance. "I wonder what it's doing here… no matter. I am glad you have it back. The sword is an extension of the warrior," he continued, touching the hilt of the Cousland family sword. "Without it, he is… incomplete." Sten looked up from his blade to stare at Derek, as if he had said something strange.

"Right," Alistair murmured, breaking the silence, and both the Cousland and the qunari turned their intense gazes on him. "Don't we still have to report back to Murdock? And talk to Ser Perth?"

"Could you go talk to the knight? I'll explain this to Murdock, and there's something else I need to do. Then I'll meet you by the windmill."

"Very well," the templar said, sending one last troubled glance Derek's way before he left the small house. His eyes were glued to his feet as he crossed Redcliffe by memory. That Derek had butchered Dwyn still bothered him… He swore he had seen a smile on the Warden's face as he did the deed. And if the dwarf was such a security risk, why allow the mercenaries to run? Something just wasn't right about it. Something wasn't right about _Derek_. Alistair had always kind of thought that he was just naturally quiet and gloomy, but maybe it was just another sign that he was a bit unhinged. Perhaps he shouldn't place so much trust in the man… But, then again, he was a lot better than Alistair at leading their group. Maybe he was an archdemon short of a Blight, but he was also charismatic, in spite of his reticent nature. With just a few words, he could coerce or intimidate a man into cooperating. He also spoke very carefully, choosing his words so that he could never be backed into a corner, but remaining diplomatic.

Now that he thought about it, though… Derek's speaking abilities suddenly seemed less like talent, and more like a skill learned through training. He didn't speak like a commoner; he usually had perfect grammar and diction. And the way he wielded words like they were weapons… Who was this man, to have been trained like that? Was he a bann or arl's son? That would explain why Teagan recognized him… but why hide it? Bastards aren't trained like that, heirs are. He couldn't be hiding anything shameful.

He brooded on that a minute longer until he finally climbed to the stop of the last hill and came upon a knot of knights standing under a tree. One of them saw him, and immediately came over.

"Greetings, Grey Warden. I am as relieved as Bann Teagan is to see you here." He spoke stiffly, awkwardly. "I must admit that I do not know quite how to address you. Is 'my lord' sufficient?" Alistair balked.

"No! No, please- just call me Alistair." Ser Perth was visibly relieved by his informality.

"As you wish, and thank you kindly. I am Ser Perth, until recently in direct service of Arl Eamon of Redcliffe. For now, my charge is defending the village from these evil assaults." He shook his head, sighing in despair. "Would that I had not chosen to seek out the Urn of Sacred Ashes, perhaps I would have fended off whatever evil befell the castle… or perhaps I would be dead," he thought again, with equal discontent, his eyebrows scrunched together. "Ah, well. With a Grey Warden aiding our defense, perhaps not all is lost."

"Ser Perth, if you don't mind me asking… How is Arl Eamon? What is he sick with?" The concern had been gnawing at him since he hat heard the news. The knight shrugged hopelessly.

"We were never certain. He thirsted for water, and then grew weaker and weaker. We brought in a mage but even that did nothing. The arlessa believed he was cursed and that we needed the power of Andraste herself, or he would surely perish."

"He is that ill?" Alistair breathed, distraught gaze drifting over Perth's shoulder to rest on the castle that loomed in the mist over the canyon.

"When I saw him last, he was unconscious, and had been for days. But that was a week ago… He may already be gone," he admitted. Then he noticed the sorrow etched into the young Warden's face, and regretted his words. "I- I am sorry. Do you know Arl Eamon well?" Of course he didn't know of Alistair's unique relationship with the man. He had arrived in Redcliffe years after Alistair had already been sent away, and the rumors had died down. Alistair searched for words, and repeatedly drew blanks. He was saved, however, by a familiar voice calling out from the path behind him. Ser Perth jumped to attention again.

"Alistair!" He peered over his shoulder to see Derek striding towards them, rubbing his freshly shaven face with satisfaction. His pressing business was to _shave_? "This is Ser Perth, I take it."

"Yes, my lord," Ser Perth said, but Derek waved away the formalities, as uncomfortable with the title as Alistair was, though less vocal about it.

"Ser Perth, have you considered using the oil in the village store? There's enough there to set many monsters aflame," Derek said, and began talking strategy with Ser Perth, who was now showing a spark of hope and enthusiasm. Alistair stood in their midst a moment longer, before wandering to the cliff's edge and staring wistfully at the castle he had once called home. Inside those walls, the Arl was either dead or dying. Even if they won the battle tonight, they would still have to face that dilemma, and Alistair knew he could never forgive himself if he let Eamon die. But what could he do? He knew nothing of medicine, and even those who did were apparently useless against his illness. Would he have to go chasing legends, too?

He sighed, and closed his eyes, swaying slightly where he stood. Whatever happened tonight, tomorrow would not be a good day.

oooooooooo

_a/n: So, I had this whole chapter written out by the middle of last week, and then the worst happened- Word crashed, and corrupted my save file! I was left with only the autosave of the first five or so pages of the chapter D: The past week has been spent rewriting it. On the bright side, I feel like my rewrite reads more smoothly than the original. I hope you like it!_

_Please, review, and a big __**thank you**__ to those that have! It really inspires me to write quicker and better!_


	11. Under Siege

Night fell uneasily on Redcliffe.

The heart of the village was filled with anxious militiamen, compulsively whetting sharp blades and counting arrows. Murdock, calm as ever, stood at the lead. With them were Leliana and Byron. The rogue was petting the painted mabari while they waited. He leaned into her slightly when she scratched his ear. Aside from his panting and the scrape of metal on metal, the square was silent.

Alistair, Derek, and Sten were with the knights on the hill overlooking the town, guarding the road. Morrigan was perched on the windmill's catwalk, staff in hand. The knights were all praying, and Alistair thought of joining them, but then he thought of Derek, who was standing strong at the front, eyes unblinkingly on the road. He was not panicking and praying for mercy or a quick death. Sten stood slightly behind the newer Warden, equally composed. The templar swallowed, and remained where he was. If they could be so calm in the face of a horde of undead, then so could he.

"They're coming!" a voice from down the hill screamed suddenly, and all turned to look at the castle. A greenish white fog was spewing from the gates and crossing the bridge.

"_Run!_" one soldier cried, bolting towards the docks.

"Get to your positions!" Murdock barked in retaliation, and his scared men remembered themselves.

"Make ready!"

The mist had reached earth again, and the knights and Wardens at the mill drew their weapons. Morrigan watched the horizon from her better vantage point.

"They are near," she warned, and Ser Perth began to speak, but Derek did not hear it for the blood rushing in his ears. He watched as the dead emerged from the mists, shambling towards them with swords and clubs in their desiccated hands. They were not all men. There were corpses in dresses visible, and some of the bodies were uncomfortably short. He clenched his teeth and exhaled sharply at the sight of a toddler amongst them, a knife in its balled fist.

"Light the fires!" Derek hollered, and Morrigan complied, launching a fireball down at the oil-slicked roads. None of the oil in the village store had gone to waste; they had drenched the road with it, and had more barrels at the ready.

The dead shrieked as they burst into flames, the fire sticking to their oily feet and spreading upwards as they flailed and fell. They did not stop, though- flaming bodies charged ahead towards the warriors on the hill, lipless jaws gnashing. They ran themselves through on the knights' swords, seemingly to no effect, and attacked with their own. One burning cadaver, one that had once been a beautiful young woman, was beating at Derek with a club even as he tried to yank his sword and dagger from her torso. He grunted as a particularly strong blow slammed into his side, breaking one of his lower ribs. A split second later, a bony fist plowed powerfully into his temple, making lights dance before his eyes.

"It isn't hurting them!" Alistair remarked in horror as he hacked at his own monstrosity, blocking its attacks with his kite shield. The knights were doing the same.

"Cut their muscles and go for the neck!" Ser Perth yelled suddenly. He had severed the tendons in his unarmored foe's sword arm, rendering it defenseless, and had beheaded it with one more blow. Now it was lying motionless on the ground, dead once more. The others learned from his success. Sten cleaved the arm and shoulder off of one of the undead and its head soon followed. Nearby, Derek managed to free his dagger, and using the Cousland sword to hold the monster in place, chopped at its neck like a forester at a tree. Before long, the waves of creatures lied dead on the ground, oozing dark ichor, and no more came from over the hills. However, the defending party was also worse for the wear. Derek had at least one broken rib and some unpleasant bites on his forearm, and his vision was still swimming. Sten had also been clubbed, and his armor was dented painfully inwards around his chest and leg, jabbing him when he moved. Alistair and the knights were better off, with only minor injuries thanks to their shields. Morrigan, who had stayed safely on the elevated platform of the mill and launched magic attacks from above, had gone unscathed.

They had no time to bandage themselves. One of Murdock's men came running up the hill, terror stricken.

"The monsters are attacking from the lake!" he told them through his slotted helm, voice quavering. "They're attacking the barricades! We need help!" Derek nodded and turned to Ser Perth, who was now staring in redoubled horror at the menagerie of former Redcliffe villagers strewn in pieces at their feet.

"Knights! Stay here and guard the path! Alistair, Sten, and Morrigan- we're going down to help the village!" Morrigan scowled, but jumped over the railing of her sniper's nest, landing with uncommon grace on the ground a dozen feet below. She and the others followed Derek and the messenger back down to the yard outside the chantry, where the militiamen were already staving off more undead. There was the occasional cry of emotional agony as one of the men recognized the corpse they were fighting, both despairing their loss and hating that they would have to dismember them.

Even Alistair was not free from it. No sooner had they plunged into battle than was he exclaiming "Oh, Maker! It's the stablemaster! Twelve years, and he hasn't changed, except to get deader!" He seemed to suffer no difficulties in lopping the dead man's head off, though. It was not quite so easy to turn around and have to repeat the action on what was once a young boy. Even Byron was hesitating, but that may have been because of the sickly sweet stench of death pervading the air and assaulting his sensitive nose. Of all the fighters in the town, only the witch and the qunari did not hesitate when faces with such a young opponent. They suffered no illusions and did not care that the monsters they killed were once harmless children. As a result, they annihilated more than any other man fighting. When Alistair waited a second too long to slay the boy-creature, Morrigan blasted it to pieces with destruction magic.

As the battle dragged on, the fighting got easier, however. The undead they fought now were those that could not keep up with the beginning waves: the very old, the very young, and those with bodies damaged in earlier attacks. They hobbled and limped into combat, only to be cut down. It was fortunate- the fighters grew weary, and their swords were beginning to feel like they were boulders. It was also getting more difficult to cut through the touch sinew and bone of the neck. Each blow dulled their blades, and made the task harder. Even the Cousland family blade, famous for holding its edge, was growing blunt.

And suddenly, there were no more assailants. There was a silence as the militiamen and the Wardens' company stood there, glancing around for any undead that may be hiding, but there were none. And then, one solder stabbed the air with his sword, crying out in victory. His comrades followed suit, and the town was filled with their triumph. The Wardens did not cheer with them, only wiped their weapons clean on the straw heaped around them to funnel the undead. This was a small victory, compared to what still had to take place. The Blight still raged. Murdock seemed to know it, too, as he wandered over to join them as his men celebrated.

"Well, we survived the night. If we burn all the bodies, they won't be coming back again- but that can be done in the morning. You still have a few hours before dawn, and I'm sure the bann will want to speak with you then. In the meantime, there is an empty house by the docks you and your companions can rest in…" He passed Derek a key with a piece of twine tied to it. Part of the twine was stained maroon, and it smelled of decay. He wondered if the mayor had taken it off of one of the undead. Nevertheless, it would give them a place to sleep after the harrowing battle. They offered him a brief thanks, and gathered their party, slowly making their way towards the house. With the adrenaline rush finally dying away, they were all left shaky and tired. The injuries they had sustained suddenly ached more than they had before. Morrigan, as exhausted as the rest, didn't complain when Derek asked her if she could heal the worst of their wounds. She simply sighed with the strain, and sent what healing magic she had left to each of them, partially mending bones and cuts.

They were quiet as they reached the house. Entering, they discovered there were five beds in four bedrooms- a large family had once lived here. Leliana immediately claimed one of the single rooms, pushing the door shut behind her. Morrigan did the same.

The men needed more time. Sten needed help getting out of his damaged armor, as reluctant as he was to admit it. Derek helped him with the buckles and clasps. Alistair, too, was slowly working his way out of his armor. It seemed his shield arm had been either badly bruised or broken, and he was favoring it.

"Well," he said, wincing as he slid his arm out of his mail, "I am suddenly glad to know that we have a witch with us. I only hope she's recharged by tomorrow."

The last tie of Sten's armor was undone, and his breastplate came off. It was stained scarlet on the inside; a point of metal had been jabbing his ribs through the padding of his gambeson. The gambeson itself was beyond saving. Sten peeled it off and threw it to the side of the room; it was crusty with blood and sweat, and torn where the armor had crumpled.

Derek tossed the giant his medical pouch from where he sat on a pile of firewood, worming out of his leathers, careful not to aggravate his damaged ribs. The qunari nodded at him, and patched up his minor wound, and then wandered off to the final single room.

"Looks like it's you and me," Alistair said, dropping his armor into a pile at his feet. Derek didn't respond, only pulled his leather tunic over his head with a groan. "I suppose we'll be off to the castle, tomorrow… Derek-" the young noble looked up from his bracers to meet Alistair's pleading eyes. "What if Arl Eamon is… is dead?"

"Then we ask Bann Teagan for help. He'd be more or less in charge under those circumstances, correct?"

Alistair nodded once, disappointed. It answered his question, but it hadn't been what he had wanted to hear. He stood up, and gathered his armor before walking towards one of the last unoccupied beds.

"Good night, then…"

And he rolled into bed, his back to the wall and his head buzzing with unwanted thoughts.

oooooooooo

He was still awake when a messenger banged on the door a few hours later. Derek groaned and rolled over in his bed, then groaned again as pressure was put on his injured ribs.

"I'll get it," Alistair grumbled. He was mindful of his own battered arm as he slowly rose from the bed and shambled to the door. He opened it a crack to see an equally tired looking man in Redcliffe armor on the other side, and then he let it swing open all the way.

"Bann Teagan requests the Wardens' presence at the chantry for a celebration ceremony. He asks that you please make haste, ser."

"Tell Bann Teagan we will be there in half of an hour. I don't suppose there will be food there?" he asked hopefully, famished from the night's events.

"Yes ser, and I believe so, ser. I saw a collection of fine cheeses being brought up from the chantry cellar," the messenger added conspiratorially with a wink. Alistair could have grinned- and might have, if he didn't know what had to be done today.

"Thank you," he aid earnestly, and closed the door again, shuffling off to wake his companions. He banged on Sten's door first, and then Leliana's. Morrigan's opened before he could even get there, and she breezed easily past him. He watched her go, staring transfixed at the sway of her hips before blushing and hurrying back to his and Derek's partitioned section of the main room in the house. There, he began furiously scrubbing at his armor with a rag, wiping off what blood and grime he could with only one good hand. Of course! He had forgotten to ask Morrigan if she could work her magic on his arm… Oh well, he could ask in a few minutes.

Derek was getting up while he scrubbed, donning his own armor and wiping weariness from his eyes. He looked tired; moreso even than before he had gone to bed. A bruise had formed in a half moon around the outside of his left eye, blending in at the bottom of its arc with the dark bags under his eyes. He fumbled as he laced his boots, swore under his breath, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, composing himself.

"Are you alright?"

"Er… Yeah. I'm just tired, I guess." He wasn't alright. Derek was seeing doubles, and it was hard to tell which image was real. Maybe it was just from lack of sleep, but he was uncomfortably confident that it was the blow to the eye he had sustained in the battle. He hoped he was wrong. Eye injuries did not typically heal properly. Alistair watched him with concern a moment longer, and then pulled his splintmail over his gambeson and left the room. Derek sighed, rubbed his offending eye for a moment, and closed it to finish tying his boots. This did not bode well…

When he had finished dressing, he rose, and joined the others outside. Nobody looked their greatest- Leliana stood with none of her usual perkiness by Alistair, who was picking at the blood crusted on his shield with one fingernail, his gloves held under his arm. Morrigan had apparently healed his arm; she was now sullenly attending to Sten, who looked more put out than the rest of them. He couldn't wear his damaged armor, and it made him uncomfortable and antsy.

"I see you're up," the witch snapped, wheeling away from Sten and putting a hand on her hip. "I suppose you'll want me to heal you, too?"

"Yes, I will," Derek replied, taking her by surprise. She hesitated a moment, and then cast Heal over him. He felt the spell wash over his body, and his broken ribs finished knitting back together. The dull ache he had felt now vanished. His vision, however, remained unchanged. Morrigan frowned, and narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, and cast Heal again, to no effect. There was a moment of tension as they stared at each other before the witch turned away, with a final glance over her shoulder.

"We ought to get moving," Alistair said. They could hear the buzz of a small crowd gathering by the chantry. When they finally came into sight, the crowd cheered, joyfully waving weapons at the Wardens' party. Bann Teagan, who was standing above them on the chantry's stoop, waved his hands to quiet them, and beckoned the Wardens to join him. When they reached his side, he began to speak.

"Dawn arrives my friends, and all of us remain. We are victorious!" There was another rowdy cheer. Teagan allowed himself a small grin. "And it is these good folk you see beside me that we have to thank for our lives today. Without their heroism, surely we would all have perished." The crowd could not be silenced, then, so he spoke over them, addressing Derek with a shallow obeisance. "I bow to you, ser. The Maker smiled on us when he sent you here in our darkest hour." Derek scowled, but Teagan did not see, as he was taking something from one of the men behind him. When he turned back to Derek, he saw that it was an orate steel helm with a pointed bauble at the crown. "Allow me to offer you this: the helm of Ser Ferris the Red, my great-uncle and hero of Ferelden. He would approve passing it to one so worthy."

"Thank you, Bann Teagan. I am honored."

"Take it, then, and use it in good health." Gingerly, Derek took the helm, and passed it over to Alistair. Judging by its weight and history, the templar might want it. If not, Sten would certainly find it useful.

Then, the chantry mother came forward, addressing the gathering. The crowd calmed down to listen. "Let us bow our heads and give honor to those who gave their lives in defense of Redcliffe. Now they walk with He who is their Maker. Long may they know the peace of His love." Derek remained silent as all others murmured the prayer response, and then Bann Teagan spoke once more, speaking once more to the people of Redcliffe.

"With the Maker's favor, the blow we delivered today is enough for me to enter the castle and seek your arl. Be wary and watch for signs of renewed attack. We shall return with news as soon as we are able." He looked over at his guests again, solemn. "Now, we've no time to waste. Meet me at the mill. We can talk further there."

Derek and Alistair nodded, and Bann Teagan stepped down from the chantry's porch to talk to Murdock.

"Alright, then," Derek said, looking over his party. "Sten, take your armor to the smithy to be repaired."

"About that," Leliana said slowly as Derek handed the giant a bag of silver coins. The Warden looked warily over at the lay sister. He didn't like the tone she was taking. "Owen said he would only provide his services if we promised to bring his daughter back from the castle alive."

"Then he will be disappointed," Derek said stonily, miffed at Leliana for making promises he couldn't keep.

"But- I promised we would try!"

"Then _you_ try. The girl is almost certainly dead, and even if she is not, we can't afford to waste our time and energy looking for her. Sten and Morrigan looked on him with approval. Alistair seemed torn between his desire to do the right thing and the knowledge that their mission was ultimately more important.

"Fine, then," Leliana said darkly. Derek sighed, and waved Sten off.

"Leliana, since you're so eager to help, please remain here and help the villagers burn the dead." Her jaw dropped with outrage, but she quickly snapped it shut again, glaring angrily at Derek before spinning on her heel and marching off to join the scattered groups that were collecting the gore.

"That was… harsh," Alistair told him, frowning. Derek ignored him.

"Alistair, Morrigan- you will come with Byron and me to meet Bann Teagan."

"Can't we find something to eat first? I was told there would be food, and we can't very well go through another battle on empty stomachs," the templar complained. For once, Morrigan agreed wholeheartedly.

"'Tis true, it would be unwise to fight again without eating first," she added. "Suppose what lurks in the castle is more dangerous than the creatures we destroyed in the night."

"Yes, of course," Derek said, and he grabbed a nearby man by the shoulder. "Tell me, ser, is there somewhere I could find food for my party?"

"Oh- yes, ser, certainly! There is food in the chantry. Please- help yourselves! It is the least we can do for the Heroes of Redcliffe!"

oooooooooo

It seemed the people of Redcliffe were inordinately fond of cheese. For every kind of meat and fruit that was spread out on the long table in the chantry's center aisle, there were three varieties of cheese. Reverently, Alistair named them off as he sampled them- Orlesian Bleu, Stentle, Denerim Pied… Derek only recognized a few of the dozens he saw. Alistair was still marveling over the selection when Derek and Morrigan had finished eating their salted pork.

"No- wait! I haven't tried the Wimbley yet!" He cried out, snatching up a piece as Derek dragged him off.

"We have to talk to the bann! Do you want to find Arl Eamon or not?" This shut him up in a heartbeat.

Teagan was waiting for them on the overlook by the windmill. Nearby stood Ser Perth and his men, who saluted them proudly as Derek took his place at the bann's side.

"Odd how quiet the castle looks from here. You would think there was nobody inside at all," Teagan said, worry lines creasing his careworn face. "But I shouldn't delay things further." He sighed, and looked over at the Warden. "I had a plan… to enter the castle after the village was secure. There is a secret passage here, in the mill, accessible only to my family." Derek frowned, displeased.

"Why didn't you mention this before?" They could have entered in the night, when the evils the castle harbored were out in the village. He could have stopped it at the source, and gotten to Eamon that much quicker.

"I knew you would choose to enter the castle instead of staying in the village… and we needed warriors," Teagan admitted. Derek had underestimated him; this plain country bann was shrewder than he let on! "I'm sorry if I- Maker's breath!" Teagan's eyes widened at something behind Derek. The Warden looked over his shoulder to see a woman in fine clothing jogging towards them, a knight at her tail. Byron growled.

"Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live!" The woman cried out. Judging by her garb and her accent, this had to be Lady Isolde. She spared nothing but the briefest glances for the Wardens, and then she was beseeching Teagan again. "I do not have much time to explain! I slipped away from the castle as soon as I saw the battle was over, and I must return quickly." Her face contorted oddly, and when she next spoke, it was as if she was struggling with her words. "And I… need you to return with me, Teagan. Alone."

"Why don't we all go to the castle?" Derek suggested cautiously, eying the woman with doubt. She glowered at him, appalled that he dare speak to her. He contemplated revealing his superior rank to her- for Teyrns outrank Arls- but then he remembered his many reasons not to: he did not want the attention from his companions, and in all honesty, he had been stripped of his title. Bitterness set back in as Isolde narrowed her eyes disdainfully at him.

"What? I… Who is this man, Teagan?" Alistair stepped forward at that point, looking altogether like a reprimanded schoolboy.

"You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?" he asked with a sigh. She stared blankly at him for a moment before his identity clicked into place.

"Alistair?" Her expression soured even more. The woman was a shrew. "Of all the… why are _you_ here?" Bann Teagan rested a calming hand on her arm.

"They are Grey Wardens, Isolde. I owe them my life," he added sternly. She pursed her lips, and her cold eyes rolled over them once more, lingering unpleasantly on Derek.

"Pardon me, I… I would exchange pleasantries, but… considering the circumstances…"

"Please, Lady Isolde," Alistair tried again. "We had no idea anyone was even alive within the castle. We must have some answers!"

"I know you need more of an explanation," she conceded, eyes darting and betraying her discomfort, "but I… don't know what is safe to tell." She turned to Teagan once more. "Teagan, there is a terrible evil within the castle. The dead waken and hunt the living. The mage responsible was caught, but still it continues. And I think…" She glanced at Derek again, who was listening intently. "Connor is going mad. We have survived but he won't flee the castle. He has seen so much death!" She grabbed the bann by his sleeves, tears starting to run down her face. "You must help him, Teagan! You are his uncle. You could reason with him. I do not know what else to do!"

Her distress seemed real, but still… not everything she said meshed together, and she was definitely hiding something.

"So why must Teagan go alone?" asked Derek, letting his suspicion show. If the arl and his son really were in such peril, he was not comfortable sending the next in line to the arling into the same danger. If all of them died, they would not receive the support they so desperately needed.

"For Connor's sake, I promised I would return quickly and only with Teagan," Isolde sobbed desperately. Even Teagan, now, was beginning to distrust her.

"Promised? Whom did you promise?" He asked, taking her shoulders and holding her at arm's length. Her mouth worked silently before she rediscovered her words.

"Something that the mage unleashed. So far it allows Eamon, Connor, and myself to live," she said, staring at the ground. "The others… were not so fortunate. It's killed so many, and turned their bodies into walking nightmares! Once it was done with the castle, it struck the village! It wants us to live, but I do not know why. It allowed me to come for you, Teagan, because I begged, because I said Connor needed help!"

"Why do I get the feeling you aren't telling us everything?" Derek accused dryly.

"I- I beg your pardon!" She gasped through her tears, revolted by his audacity. "That's a rather impertinent accusation!"

"Not if it's true." The arlessa positively teemed with anger.

"An evil I cannot fathom holds my son and husband hostage! I came for help! What more do you want from me? Teagan, I do not have much time! What if it thinks I am betraying it? It could kill Connor! Please come back with me- must I beg?"

"Tell me about this mage," Derek demanded.

"He is an… infiltrator, I think- one of the castle staff. We discovered he was poisoning my husband. That is why Eamon fell ill."

"Eamon was poisoned?" gasped Teagan, horrorstruck.

"He claims an agent of Teyrn Loghain's hired him! He may be lying, however- I cannot say! _Please_,Teagan-!"

"The king is dead, and we need my brother now more than ever," Teagan said resolutely. "I will return to the castle with you, Isolde."

"Oh, thank the Maker! Bless you, Teagan! Bless you!"

"This is a mistake," Derek asserted. "You're going to get yourself _killed._"

"I cannot let Isolde return alone. Perhaps I can help Connor or Eamon. Perhaps this is really a trap, but this is my family. I must try. I have no illusions of dealing with this evil alone. You, on the other hand, have proven quite formidable. Isolde, can you excuse us for a moment? We must confer in private before I return to the castle with you."

"Please do not take too long!" She said, wiping away her tears and stepping back from the bann. "I will be by the bridge." With that, she began jogging away, and Teagan began to speak hurriedly with the Wardens.

"Here's what I propose: I go in with Isolde and you enter the castle using the secret passage. My signet ring unlocks the door. Perhaps I will… distract whatever evil is inside and increase your chances of getting in unnoticed. What do you say?"

"What exactly are we supposed to do in there?"

"I wish I knew," Teagan admitted, pushing his hair out of his eyes wearily. "I don't know any more about this 'evil force' than Isolde seems to. Ser Perth and his men can watch for danger at the castle entrance. If you can open the gates from within, they can move in and help you. I don't think there's anyone else who can help you. If you choose not to go, then it's up to me to do what I can. Here is my signet ring. It will open the lock on the door in the mill." He pulled the ring off his index finger, and dropped it into Derek's outstretched hand. "Whatever you do, Eamon is the priority here. If you have to, just get him out of there. Isolde, me, and anyone else… we're expendable."

"I understand. We'll do our best," Derek said, but Alistair was looking a little ill.

"You are a good man. The Maker smiled on me indeed, when He sent you to Redcliffe." Now Derek felt about as ill as Alistair looked. 'Smiled,' indeed. Nothing says 'love' like sending you to a hellhole within a hellhole. "But I can delay no further. Allow me to bid you farewell… and good luck." Teagan clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder as he passed, giving the man a small smile, and then he was gone up the hill, head bowed.

"Watching the fool march to his death helps us none," Morrigan drawled, getting both of the Wardens' attentions. "Are we going to rescue this 'Eamon' or not?"

"Of course," Derek murmured, leading the templar, witch, and mabari to the mill door. The Knight-Commander guarding it nodded to them as they passed through.

The room they entered was small and circular. The air was thick with flour, and made is somewhat difficult to see. Derek squinted through the powdery mist, and saw little but straw and barrels.

"There," Alistair said, pointing at the floor on the left side. A trapdoor was carefully hidden under a pile of straw. Morrigan brushed distastefully at the white dust clinging to her dark clothing while the Wardens fitted the signet ring into a depression in the trapdoor. With a twist of the ring, a latch popped open, and the door was unlocked. Derek pulled it up on its hinge in a cloud of flour, revealing a steep, spiraling staircase. Flour also floated in the air below, turning the pitch dark gray. Byron sniffed at the opening, and sneezed, his fur pale with the stuff.

"Shall I light the way?" Morrigan asked, taking her staff in hand.

"No!" cried Derek and Alistair, reaching towards her at the same time.

"You'd blow the mill and everything in it sky high," Alistair explained faintly.

"It's the flour," Derek added. "As long as there's flour, no fires." Morrigan scowled at them, but shrugged her dainty shoulders.

"Very well, then," she said coldly, unhappy that they had known something she did not. "'Tis not a hindrance for me." With that, she morphed into a large golden-eyed black cat before their eyes, and darted down into the passageway. Byron perked his ears at the cat-that-was-human, and trotted after it. Derek and Alistair both sighed with relief that there hadn't been any explosions, and went in after them.

It was incredibly dark in the tunnel, and cold. It seemed to spiral down forever.

"We'll be under the lake, soon," Alistair remarked from somewhere above and behind Derek. It echoed loudly. The wooden stairs had soon given way to stone, and now the air was filled with the echoes of their passage. And slowly, the flour in the air was fading away. When they reached a flat tunnel at last, Derek stopped. Alistair, blind, walked right into him.

"Ouch- Morrigan! You can light a torch, now!" There was no reply. "Morrigan?... Blast it…" He swung his pack off his shoulder and rummaged through it, feeling for his flint and tinder. He struck the flint, his his finger in the dark, and swore. A second try yielded sparks. A third set light to the packet of tinder he kept with him. He was bathed in a dim orange light as the flames quickly devoured the dead goldenrod. Quickly, he drew his dagger, wrapped it in bandages, poured a small amount of his nug oil over it, and held it to the flames. Quickly it caught, and soon the tip of his blade was ablaze, and he could see his surroundings.

"Morrigan and the mabari aren't here," Alistair commented, concerned. The tunnel ahead of them was damp, dark, and devoid of life. "Only one way they could have gone. Shall we?"

Derek led the way, Alistair close at his heels. Time was immeasurable; they could have been walking for ten minutes, or an hour, or longer with no company but the sounds of their own footfalls and the steady dripping of water. Eventually, though, new sounds joined them- sharp, quiet skittering noises, scraping against the stone.

"Ugh- rats," Alistair said, pointing at motion along the wall shortly ahead of them. A horde of rats stood there dumbly before scattering into holes or down the corridor. "We must be close to the castle. That's probably where they get their food."

Sure enough, not much farther down the passage, they came upon a thick oaken door, studded with iron. Derek shoved it open, and covered his eyes as they fund themselves in a much brighter- though still dim- room. He blinked the pain from his eyes as he pushed the flaming cloth from his dagger and stamped it out on the granite floor.

"I was wondering how much longer it would take you," said Morrigan. She was leaning against a support beam. Byron was lying nearby, stumpy tail wagging. "What's the matter? Still dazzled by the light?" Derek consciously forced himself to stop blinking. He had forgotten his condition in the dark, but now that his vision was restored, the ghost images his eye was displaying for him were more irritating than ever.

"No, I'm fine," he covered quickly. Was Morrigan onto him? Alistair, too, was now giving him strange looks.

"Are you sure? You've been acting strangely. You're slower." Damn it all! The templar was observant, but Derek always forgot because of the act of stupidity he put up. "And you did take a pretty hard blow to the head in the battle."

"I told you, I'm fine!" Alistair laid off, but neither he nor the witch were fooled. Derek eyes them, almost nervous, but they left him alone. "Now, let's go."

They appeared to be in a branch of the dungeons, long forgotten and dusty with disuse. Cobwebs spanned the whole hall in some placed, and they had to push through, spitting with disgust any time some got in their mouths.

The next doorway they went through, they were caught off guard. Before any of them knew what was happening, they had swords clanging off their armor, and Morrigan was running back to distance herself from the assault. More undead! Growling, Derek drew his sword and wielded it two-handed, easily decapitating one of the monsters. Another found itself brought to the floor by Byron, allowing Alistair to plunge the tip of his sword down through its neck, severing its spinal column. Morrigan launched an ice spell over their shoulders, freezing the remaining two. Alistair bashed them with his shield and they shattered into frozen chunks of viscera.

"Hello? Who's there? Is there anyone alive out there?" a weak voice called out from one of the cells lining the wall, and the party approached. "Wait," the prisoner said as they came into view. He was wearing the robes of a mage apprentice, stained red by his own blood, and sitting feebly at the floor of his cell. He regarded the Wardens with confusion. "You don't look like the arlessa's guards. Are you from outside the castle?"

"I'll ask the questions, here," Derek growled. This had to be the mage that had poisoned Eamon and started this mess.

"I… yes. I understand," the mage submitted, eyes lowered.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jowan. I'm a mage Lady Isolde hired to tutor her son, Connor. Until they, uh, threw me in the dungeon here."

"You're the one who poisoned the arl." This got a rise out of the mage.

"I'm not proud of it!" he almost shouted, looking despairingly up at his interrogator. "The arlessa had no idea what I was hired to do when she took me in to tutor Connor. I… I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle. I was already imprisoned when all that began. At first, Lady Isolde came here with her men demanding that I reverse what I'd done. I thought she meant my poisoning of the arl. That's the first I heard about the walking corpses. She thought I'd summoned a demon to torment her family and destroy Redcliffe." He scoffed, as if he found the idea ridiculous. "She… she had me tortured. There was nothing I could do or say that would appease her. So they… left me to rot."

"Why did the arlessa hire you to tutor her son?"

"Lady Isolde was looking for a mage to tutor Connor, secretly. Teyrn Loghain found out and he… sent me. I was to use the opportunity to poison the arl. I was told that Arl Eamon was a threat to Ferelden, that if I dealt with him Loghain would settle matters with the Circle. You see," he said, glancing anxiously up at them, "I'm a maleficar: a blood mage." Morrigan laughed incredulously.

"You? A blood mage? Truly? I would never have guessed."

"A blood mage!" Alistair exclaimed, himself. "Well, _that_ isn't good…"

"I dabbled in the forbidden arts, and they condemned me to death forit. I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to… redeem myself…" Derek's eyes flashed. "But he's abandoned me here, hasn't he? Everything's fallen apart, and I'm responsible! I have to make it right somehow, I have to!"

"But why did the arlessa need a mage to tutor her son?" Alistair asked, confused, and uncomfortable talking to a maleficar.

"Connor had started to show… signs," Jowan explained gingerly as he picked at a scab on his wrist, perhaps from manacles. "Lady Isolde was terrified the Circle of Magi would take him away for training."

"Connor?" the templar marveled, eyebrows raised. "A mage? I can't believe it!"

"She sought an apostate," Jowan continued, watching Alistair warily. "a mage outside the Circle, to teach her sonin secret so he could learn to hide his talent. Her husband had no idea." Slowly things were meshing together. Perhaps Jowan had oisoned the arl, but could the boy have been responsible for the walking dead?

"How much magic did you teach Connor?" Derek asked him.

"Some. But he's still very young. He can barely cast a minor spell- never mind something more powerful. At least, not intentionally." He paused, as if debating with himself, and then continued: "I have thought about it, and it's possible Connor could have inadvertently done something to tear open the Veil. With the Veil to the Fade torn, spirits and demons could infiltrate the castle. Powerful ones could kill and create those walking corpses."

"I see." Derek said simply, pondering the concept.

"I never meant for it to end like this, I swear!" Jowan insisted suddenly, grabbing the bars of his cell door with his grimy hands."Let me help you ix this."

"I say this boy could still be of use to us," Morrigan commented, waving a hand airily. "But if not, then let him go. Why keep him prisoner here?" Alistair glared at her, horrified by the concept.

"Hey, hey! Let's not forget he's a blood mage! You can't just… set a blood mage free!"

"Better to slay him?" snapped the witch, stepping confrontationally towards Alistair. "Better to punish him for his choices? Is this Alistair who speaks, or the templar?" Alistair scowled at her.

"I'd say it's common sense. We don't even know the whole story yet."

"Give me a chance, please!" pled Jowan, resting his forehead mournfully against the iron bars.

"So how will you make things right?" Jowan seemed surprised by the question.

"I'd… well," he stammered, "I'd try to save anyone still up there. There must be something I can do."

"And after that, what happens?"

"Afterwards?" His tone of voice answered Derek's question. The mage hadn't thought about 'afterwards,' because he did not think there would be one for him. "I assume I'll be arrested. Or executed. Or… whatever people like me get. I'm tired of running from the Circle. I need to account for what I've done."

"So if I were to just let you go…?"

"I'd stay and try to help, if I could," the mage told him, and Derek was inclined to take him for his word. "Perhaps I can help deal with whatever's been unleashed here."

"That's commendable, if it's true," Derek said matter-of-factly, thinking about it. This man sought penance. His life would be forfeit if he tried to make amends on his own. But… If Derek stepped in, he could facilitate the man's reconciliation, and protect him from those who would keep him from it…

"I don't like that face you're making," Alistair said suddenly. "You looked like that when we took Sten on."

"What are you-?" Jowan asked, confused. Morrigan laughed again.

"Oh, yes! This should prove entertaining."

"No!" Alistair reprimanded Morrigan, disgusted by her delight. He repeated it with the same sentiment to Derek, who was still staring thoughtfully at the blood mage, a strange gleam in his eyes. "No! He's a maleficar, he uses _life force_ to work _magic_! He's dangerous!"

"So are we all," Derek replied, unmoved. "Jowan, I hereby conscript you to the service of the Grey Wardens- may you find your salvation."

oooooooooo

_a/n: Jowan always seemed like such a waste to me. I mean, he either dies, is sent of to live in eternal incarceration at the Circle, or he goes off and helps common folk. Why _not_ conscript him? It makes the most sense._

_Plus, Derek's got a bit of a philia for penance. I mean, the dude's messed up in the head. How could he deny Jowan the chance to make amends?_

_Anyway, thank you as always for reading! I hope to have another chapter posted soon. :D_


	12. Connor

Derek made short work of the lock holding Jowan's cell door closed. The whole time, Alistair kept berating his 'poor' judgement.

"I still say he's more trouble than he's worth," Alistair protested while Derek was stooped over the lock, picking the tumblers methodically. "Even if he proves useful- and I don't see how he can- he'a a _maleficar_. The Chantry and anybody else in their right mind-" he shot a dark look at Morrigan, who crossed her arms, "-will refuse to even talk to us, let alone help us in any way. We won't even be able to buy food with him around!"

"So you intend to tell all we meet that he is an apostate?" queried Morrigan sharply. "We could dress him in new clothing and none would be the wiser, unless you plan on starving yourself by giving him away. You are a fool, indeed, if you're resorting to such nonsensical arguments."

There was a click as the lock was undone, and the mage pulled himself to his feet somewhat unsteadily.

"I… I do not know how useful I can be in my present condition," he admitted.

"Can you keep up?" Derek asked, pulling the cell door open with a groan of rusty metal.

"I'm not sure. I think so."

"Are you able to cast spells?" Morrigan continued. Jowan frowned, and glanced at the floor.

"N-no."

The witch sighed, not looking forward to having a useless tag-along, but Derek looked thoughtful. He reached into his pack and rummagd around for a moment. On one of the darkspawn he had looted a couple days ago, he thought it was one of the emissaries- yes! He drew a bottle of blue liquid from his pack, and tossed it to Jowan.

"This is lyrium potion, correct? It will help you with your magic?" Jowan was visibly relieved. He had never lifted a blade in his life, and without magic, he would have been very vulnerable to attack. The lyrium would give him enough energy to last through a few skirmishes at least.

"Yes, thank you," he said with a small bow, uncorking the bottle and drinking the potion. The templar grimaced.

"I liked it better when he _couldn't_ hurt anyone, thank you," he growled to nobody in particular. His companions ignored him.

"What now?" Jowan asked Derek, brow creased. "What does it mean, that I've been recruited to the Grey Wardens? What are you doing here?"

"You will come with us and rescue Arl Eamon from the castle. "Jowan nodded. "And then, you come with us to fight darkspawn and end this Blight." Immediately, the mage froze.

"I am eager to help right my wrongs, ser, but- I am not to eager to follow you into such danger… Maker's breathe, end the _Blight_…"

"You have no choice, now, blood mage," Alistair growled with some satisfaction. He did not want Jowan to be pleased with his fate. "Once conscripted, there's no way out but death."

"We can discuss this later," Derek interrupted, moving towards the door. "We have to get moving."

The next room was revealed to be an older part of the dungeon, long since converted from cells to storage. Great arches marked where the bars once stood, blocking off the spaces within. The iron caging had been taken away, but the rusty marks and holes where they had connected to floor and wall were still evident. Musty skeletons with flesh mummified over time still lie about, amidst rubble, barrels, and straw. Set into the far wall was a simple wooden post-and-lintel doorway, stairs visible within. Derek led his group onward towards it, but jumped back as Byron let loose a warning bark. The decades-dead prisoners were rising, bones creaking, and raspy groans escaping their throats. And then, they burst unexpectedly into flame, their dried out skin and muscle catching flame like fine tinder. Derek glanced back at Morrigan, whose staff was held out. A small smile was on her face as the fire quickly consumed them, and their sooty bones fell back to the floor.

"Onward, then," Alistair said, trying his best to sound unimpressed. He took the lead, trotting up the stairs he vaguely remembered from his childhood. The others trailed behind.

They emerged into a largish room, with elaborately decorated support beams and posts. Except for some dusty rugs spread across the floor, it was empty.

"This wasn't always empty," Alistair mused, sword at the ready as he approached the closed door to their right. "For the life of me, I can't remember what it _was_, though…" Derek came to his side, and they threw open the door. As they had half expected, there was another walking corpse n the other side, but this one was in remarkable condition- he had been a guardsman, and was in full armor. He bore a steel greatsword, and a Redcliffe shield hung at his back. His foggy eyes rolled sickly in their sockets, and he grunted at them like a sick man on the verge of death. The two Wardens took him together; Derek's dagger pierced through his mail, and Alistair's sword bit his neck, half-severing it. The undead guard started to shriek, its trachea somehow intact, but a second chop of the templar's blade silenced it forever.

"The chantry is through there," Alistair said, pointing to the door across the hall and moving towards it. A small gust of air flushed out from under the door when he touched the handle. Air and… ash?

"Wait-" Derek said, but it was too late. The senior Warden had opened the door a crack, and without further warning, it was slammed open the rest of the way, throwing Alistair to the ground, dazed. Out swarmed a quartet of ghastly shade creatures, in a miasma of dust and ash.

"Ash wraiths- use ice!" Jowan shouted from the rear of the party, casting frost on the party's weapons. Even Byron's claws flashed with ice as they tore into the insubstantial forms of the wraiths, tearing at the cinders they were made of. One of them wrapped around his foreleg when he jumped up, constricting it painfully. When he yelped, Derek jumped to his aid, slashing viciously at the almost clothlike wraith. Nearby, Morrigan found herself somehow back to back with the male mage, casting cones of cold in either direction, freezing the particles of ash in the air and dispelling the spirits within.

"Ash wraiths," repeated Jowan weakly, his hands shaking. "I never thought I'd see one. They're made out of the ashes of the dead…"

"They were burning the corpses down in the village," Derek muttered, wondering if they would have more of these wraiths to fight, and hoping against it. Only magic seemed to really hurt them, and what if Morrigan and Jowan were disabled? Just when it seemed things couldn't get worse…

"Nobody's here… Through the guard's lounge, then- to the hall," Alistair said a moment later, and then led the party again, this time out of the back of the chantry and through the door on the other side.

"Agh- they never stop coming!" He barked when half a dozen undead flung themselves at him.

"Move over, you dolt," Morrigan growled, shoving him aside and casting cone of cold on the group, freezing them solid. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead; that spell cost her a lot of energy, but it was very effective. The corpses were easily shattered with shield blows and sharp raps with the hilt of a sword. And then, on they went, Alistair growing more anxious by the second. He didn't want to think that Eamon was dead, but there were so many monsters about, how could it be otherwise? Something awful was going on here, and he didn't trust Isolde to be honest with them.

Beyond them was the guard barracks, filled once more with another dozen undead. Jadedly, they hacked them to pieces, sustaining minor injuries in the close quarters. Wiping blood from his face, Alistair gestured at the two doors at the end of the room.

"The left goes to the kennels. We'll want to go straight. I imagine there will be more of these… _creatures_ waiting for us."

"No point in speculating," Derek said, pulling the door open to find- nothing. He took a step forward, glancing into the room to his left. Its door was open, and there was nothing inside. All was quiet.

"I don't like this," he mumbled as Alistair and Byron both followed close after him. Then, he saw a shimmer along the ground, and held his arm in from of Alistair, halting him at a safe distance. It was a tripwire extended from wall to wall. But had the undead put it up, or castle denizens- or demons? He didn't want to think about it. "Trap. I'll disarm it…" He fumbled for a long minute with the wire. His blurred vision made it ten times more difficult, and after a while, he could feel his companion's eyes burning into his back. "There. Which way now, Alistair?"

"There's a shortcut to the hall through the kitchens," he said, looking over at the fist door on the right hand side of the wall. "From there, we can get anywhere in the castle fairly quickly."

"Then that's the route we take. Morrigan, will you take the lead? Your ice spell seems to stop our enemies quite well."

"Then I am afraid you'll be disappointed," she said. "I haven't the energy for another large spell."

"Jowan?" The blood mage bit his lip with apprehension, and slowly stepped to the front of the group, looking very much like a rabbit during a hunt.

"Good. Now, get ready," Derek warned, and then pulled the door's handle, stepping aside. There was a cacophony of screeching inside, and then Jowan, eyes squeezed shut in fear, cast through the door, his hands briefly glowing pal blue. There was the hissing crunch of ice forming over rotting flesh.

"Very good," Alistair said brightly, looking in at the crystallized monsters, and then he snapped his mouth shut as he realized he had just complimented a maleficar. Morrigan smirked, and brushed past him to enter the kitchen, smashing the ice blocks apart with blows from her staff. Byron bounded after her, pouncing at one and knocking it into another, shattering both. Alistair stomped past them, and tried a door on the far wall, and then frowned at it wouldn't yield.

"We need to go the long way," He said reluctantly, tugging pointlessly at the handle one last time. "It's locked."

"It's just a door," Derek growled, glancing around the room, and then bending to pick a war axe off the ground from where it had been dropped by one of the walking dead. Then, he had at the door, hacking ferociously near the handles. Catching on, Morrigan seized a piece of crumbled masonry in her dainty hands. When Derek stepped aside to catch his breath, she muttered an incantation under her breath, and flung the rock at the door, all but exploding it. Chunks of wood flew through the air, and all covered their eyes, surprised.

"Stonefist," Jowan muttered, stunned, and staring entranced at Morrigan. "Why hadn't I thought of that?"

"That works too," Alistair tacked on, gaping at both the witch and his fellow Warden. His face fell when he saw past the open doorframe and into the hall, however. On the other side of the room, Isolde stood broken next to a boy that could only be her son, Connor. And before them, Bann Teagan was bouncing around, playing the fool and doing backflips and somersaults. "Oh, Maker," he breathed, and dashed into the room. Derek quickly followed, with Morrigan and Byron at his heels. Jowan held back. He doubted Isolde would be at all happy to see him. He would only step in if he thought he could help…

Alistair skidded to a halt when he got within a few yards of his almost-brother, almost-cousin. The boy seemed… off. He had a horrible, cruel glint in his eye, and he stood rigidly, inhumanly at the head of the room, watching his uncle try to entertain. Teagan was even more _wrong_; he seemed stupid, or drugged. Magic…

Connor scowled at them, and looked up at Isolde, who was silently weeping. Her tears streamed unattractively down her face, unnoticed by her son. With a wave of the boy's hand, Teagan stopped his antics and crouched by his nephew's side. "So these are our visitors?" He asked, in an impossibly deep and monstrous voice. Alistair let out a sharp breath- he knew what had happened now. He may not have been the most attentive student of the Chantry, but he had passed through all of the templar training, and what Conor had become… He knew the signs, and knew them well.

"Y-yes, Connor," Isolde was saying between sobs, clearly terrified of her own child.

"And this is the one who defeated my soldiers? The ones I sent to reclaim my village?" Connor pointed accusatorially at Derek, his blue eyes narrowed. "And now it's staring at me! What is it, Mother? I can't see it well enough." Isolde looked almost apologetically at the Wardens when she responded, hands wringing.

"This… this is just a man, Connor. Like your father…"

"Oh, I'm tired of hearing about him! Besides, he's nothing at _all_ like Father. Look at him! Breathing and not dying in the slightest! I could change that, mind you," he added darkly, still glowering evilly at Derek.

"C-Connor, I beg you, _don't hurt anyone!_" Isolde pleaded, dropping to her knees like a priest at prayer. Connor blinked dumbly at her, then frowned, something human coming back to his face.

"M-Mother?" he asked uncertainly, "What… what's happening? Where am I?"

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Isolde cried, reaching out to her son. "Connor! Connor, can you hear me?" Suddenly, the boy blinked again, and slapped her hands violently away.

"Get away from me, fool woman! You are beginning to bore me," he snarled at her. She turned to the Wardens again, face soaked with tears.

"Grey Warden," she addressed Derek, ignoring Alistair entirely. "Please don't hurt my son! He's not responsible for what he does!"

"So _he_ is the evil force you spoke of," Derek said flatly, and Alistair tore his eyes away from the arlessa to look at him, concerned by his deadened voice. The teyrn's son felt ill. Oren would have been only a little younger than this boy… And evil had claimed them both. It felt like a repeat of the betrayal at Highever…

"No!" Isolde roared in agony. "Don't say that!"

"So the boy has become an abomination and sundered the Veil?" Morrigan asked rhetorically, caught between disappointment and amusement.

"Connor didn't mean to do this!" Isolde forcefully asserted. "It was that mage, the one who poisoned Eamon- he started all of this! He summoned this demon! Connor was just trying to help his father!"

"And made a deal with the demon to do so? Foolish child." Apparently even Morrigan had been taught that demons were altogether bad news.

"It was a fair deal," growled the Connor-demon, fists clenched. "Father is alive, just as I wanted. Now it's my turn to sit on the throne and send out armies to conquer the world! Nobody tells me what to do anymore!"

"Nobody tells him what to do!" echoed Bann Teagan loudly. "Nobody! Ha-ha!" Connor narrowed his eyes, and kicked his uncle sharply.

"Quiet, uncle. I warned you what would happen if you kept shouting, didn't I? Yes, I did." His dim eyes rolled back over to Derek. "But let's keep things civil. This man will have the audience he seeks. Tell us… what have you come here for?"

"We need to see Arl Eamon," responded the young Warden truthfully, feeling very burnt out. Surely the demon child could not find fault with such a response, particularly if the boy had gone through all this effort just to save the man from Jowan's poison.

"So you're a concerned well-wisher. Why didn't you just say that in the first place? All this sneaking around and killing is so unnecessary! But…" He sneered at them contemptuously. "…Father is so very ill. We really shouldn't disturb him. Isn't that right, Mother?" His attention suddenly returned to Isolde, who went wide-eyed with minute panic.

"I… I don't think…"

"Of course you don't," the abomination snapped. "Ever since you sent the knights away, you do nothng but deprive me of my fun. Frankly, it's getting dull. I crave excitement! And action!" he exclaimed, clawing at the air with outstretched hands and a terrible enthusiasm. "This man spoiled my sport by saving that stupid village, and now he'll repay me!" With that, the boy darted from the room. Alistair reached for Teagan, to see if he was alright, but the man drew a sword on him, slashing his calf. Alistair yelped and jumped away, leaving a thin trail of blood behind. All the guards in the room were converging on them, weapons drawn. Isolde had retreated to cower uselessly in the corner.

"Come on, Teagan!" Alistair cried desperately, blocking a second blow with his shield, unwilling to fight back. "Come to your senses!"

"'Tis no use!" Morrigan shouted at him as she shot a lightning bolt at one guard and whacked another in the helm with her staff. "He is enchanted. You shall have to kill him!"

"We'll see about that," he spat back, and sheathed his sword. This could be very stupid, but in his templar training, he had been taught a technique to fight with only a shield… maybe if he could daze Teagan, the man could be restrained. Or maybe he could knock him out. Resolute, he charged at the man, bearing his shield with both hands.

Jowan chose that moment to join the skirmish, charging in with a flurry of ice spells on hand. He froze the plate armor of one guard, and then screamed like a little girl as another guard began to chase angrily after him. Fortunately, Derek joined the chase, stabbing the knight in the back with a sickening crunch. Neither man wasted any time in taking down the rest of the men, until only Alistair and Teagan were fighting.

"I told you, you fool!" the witch barked at him. "You have to-"

But Alistair only snarled, and slammed his shield upside Teagan's head. The bann fell instantly to the floor.

"Oh, Maker, is he-?" Alistair started, blood draining from his face. Had he hit the man too hard? Had he broken his neck? Isolde, also worried, came running down from her corner, dropping to her knees at her brother-in-law's side.

"Teagan! Teagan, are you alright?" And then, the man stirred. She grasped his hands and helped him back to his feet, worry clear on her face.

"I am… better now, I think. My mind is my own again." He rubbed the spot on his head where Alistair's finishing blow had landed. He would probably have a massive lump there by the end of the day.

"Blessed Andraste! I would never have forgiven myself had you died, not after I brought you here. What a fool I am!" She clung to his arm, but stared weepily at the Wardens. "Please! Connor's not responsible for this! There must be some way we can save him!"

"You knew about this all along," Derek accused quietly, still sounding like the walking dead himself.

"I… yes. I didn't tell you because I believed we could help him. I still do."

"I am sorry, my lady," Jowan surprised everybody by saying, stepping out from behind Alistair where he had been lurking. "but Connor has become an abomination. He's no longer your son." The arlessa's face contorted with rage, and Teagan winced under the grip she had on his arm.

"You! You did this to Connor!"

"I didn't! I didn't summon any demon, I told you!" Jowan defended himself, cowering once more behind the templar, who grabbed him by his bloodied robes and pulled him back into view. "Please, if you'll let me help-"

"_Help?_" Isolde shrieked like an Orlesian banshee. "You betrayed me! I brought you here to help my son and in return you poisoned my husband!" Teagan frowned, and his gaze switched rapidly between the arlessa and the maleficar.

"This is the mage you spoke of? Didn't you say he was in the dungeon?"

"He _was_. I assumed the creatures had killed him by now. He must have been set free," she accused the Wardens with a deadly glare. Derek stared right back, unaffected.

"I thought he'd be useful, seeing as he helped start this."

"Useful?" scoffed she. "After everything he did, he should be executed! Without him, none of this would have happened!" At this, the bann pried her gently off his arm and took a step away, regarding her coolly.

"Your secrecy made his actions possible, Isolde."

"But I…" she objected weakly, shocked that Teagan would speak against her.

"I know… what you must think of me, my lady," Jowan continued, bowing his head and clasping his hands behind his back. "I took advantage of your fear. I am sorry. I… never knew it would come to this."

"Well," Teagan sighed, "I shan't turn away his help. Not yet. And if Connor is truly an abomination…"

"He is not always the demon you saw!" Isolde sputtered, disliking the turn in the conversation. "Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please, I just want to protect him!"

"Isn't that what started this?" asked Teagan, exasperated. "You hired the mage to teach Connor in secret… to protect him."

"If they discovered Connor had magic, then they'd take him away! I thought if he learned just enough to hide it, then…"

"Where is Arl Eamon?" Derek asked, cutting her off. He did not care for her habit of deflecting blame that was clearly hers.

"Upstairs, in his room. I think the demon has been keeping him alive," she said, crying again.

"So," postulated the bann, pushing his hair behind his ear, "if we destroy the demon, then…?"

"Then my husband may perish, yes."

"What are our options?" The Warden asked. Alistair cleared his throat.

"I wouldn't normally suggest slaying a child, but… he's an abomination. I'm not sure there's any choice," he said, clearly loathing himself for his response. Isolde looked heartbroken, and though she and her husband's charge had never seen eye to eye, he could feel her pain.

"There is… another option," Jowan spoke up again, nervously shifting his weight. "Though I… loathe offering it. A mage could confront the demon in the Fade, without hurting Connor himself."

"What do you mean? Is the demon not within Connor?" asked the bann. Jowan shook his head.

"Not physically. The demon approached Connor in the Fade while he dreamt, and controls him from there. We can use the connection between them to find the demon."

"You can enter the Fade, then? And kill the demon without hurting my boy?"

"No, but I can enable another mage to do so. It normally requires lyrium and several mages, but I have… blood magic." Immediately, Isolde, Teagan, and Alistair took a hesitant step away, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"See, lyrium provides the power for the ritual. But I can take that power from somebody's life energy. This ritual requires a lot of it, however. All of it, in fact," he finished softly.

"So… someone must die? Someone must be sacrificed?" asked Teagan, quietly horrified.

"Yes, and then we send another mage into the Fade, I can't enter because I'm doing he ritual. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything," he discredited himself, stepping down. "It's… not much of an option…"

"Is there no other method?" Derek asked, morosely hopeful.

"The power has to come from somewhere, and that means either lyrium… or blood."

"Then let it be my blood. I will be the sacrifice," Isolde volunteered out of the blue, catching them all off guard.

"What?" Teagan blurted, staring at her in disbelief. "Isolde, are you mad? Eamon would never allow this!"

"Either someone kills my son to destroy that thing inside him or I give my life so my son can live. To me, the answer is clear."

"Blood magic," Alistair said distastefully. "How can more evil be of any help here? Two wrongs don't make a right."

"It does seem like a sensible choice," Morrigan disagreed calmly, "with a willing participant."

"Connor is blameless in this," Isolde went on, entreating Derek. "He should not have to pay the price."

"It… it's up to you, my friend," Teagan told the distraught Warden, unable to meet his eyes. "You know more about such things than I do, and it's your companon going into the Fade. The decision is yours."

Frustrated by the weight put on his shoulders, Derek turned away, scrubbing at his temple with one hand. "There _must_ be another way to enter the Fade."

"You can find lyrium and more mages at the Circle of Magi- if they would even do it," Alistair suggested half-heartedly.

"The Circle tower is not far from here," Derek mused.

"That is an excellent point," the templar noted. "One of the treaties is also for the Circle of Magi, after all." So it was. Still… The thought of leaving Redcliffe in this state for three days made him uneasy. What evils would the abomination commit? Would it kill Eamon, or Teagan? Would they be unable to gather the support they so desperately needed?

"The tower is about a day's journey across the lake," Teagan was also mulling. "You could attempt to get the mages' help."

"But what will happen here?" Isolde echoed Derek's concerns. "Connor will not remain passive forever!"

"Perhaps not, then," muttered Derek to himself, completely overwhelmed.

"Still, we must make a decision," the bann declared.

"I need to think," Derek said plainly, wandering off through the doorway Connor had vanished through, bloody dagger held limply at his side. The others hesitated; Alistair took a single step after him, and then stopped as Teagan grabbed his shoulder. Derek had to be alone.

The young Warden found himself in a short corridor, with matching gold embroidered-blue rugs spanning its length side by side. He strode down between them, trailing droplets of blood behind him as they dripped from his blade.

At the end of the hall, he came upon an open door. Inside was a splendid office, with shelved walls lined with books. On the desk at the center of the room was a single thick tome. He ran two fingers over its leather cover, brushing the dust from it. Then he circled the desk, and eased himself into the chair. This was Eamon's study, he was sure. No better place to ponder the fate of the arl's family.

He had three options.

He could go on a three day journey to the Circle, where he may or may not receive help. Or, he could sacrifice Isolde to rescue Connor, by sending Morrigan into the Fade. Alternatively… Connor could be sacrificed.

None of the options sat well with him. Derek placed his dagger on top of the desk, careful not to scratch the lovely wood surface. The option he was most comfortable with was the first, but could Redcliffe survive three more days? Connor was a very real threat. As long as he was in place, he would continue wreaking havoc. And so, it was not an option at all.

Which left him with the sticky choice of saving Connor and killing Isolde, or saving Isolde and killing Connor. And once more, the images of Oren and Oriana surfaced in his head, dead and bloodied on the floor…

"What say _you_, Eamon?" he whispered, opening the top drawer of the desk. Maybe there would be something inside to help him make the impossible choice. If he chose to save Isolde, Eamon would no doubt be heartbroken over his son's loss. A wife is cherished, but a child is so much more. And yet, if he saved Connor, the boy would be taken away by the Circle and Eamon would never see him again, leaving the noble with no family at all. Even then, there was no guarantee of success. He did not fancy the prospect of sending Morrigan alone into the Fade, to fight a demon of unknown strength on its own turf. The odds did not sound good.

Maybe Eamon's belongings would help him decide. Derek felt blindly inside the drawer, and pulled out a few strips of vellum his fingers found. They were blank. He reached in again, and his fingertips brushed against something cold, something metallic. Curious, he snagged it on his index finger and pulled it out.

It was a beautiful silver amulet, dangling from a fine chain. However, it had once been broken- the depiction of Andraste's fire that ornamented the front had numerous cracks through it, filled in with strong glue. Could this… Did Eamon save Alistair's amulet, all these years?

"Oh, Eamon," he groaned, covering the silver circle with his fingers and warming it in his hand before gently placing it next to his dagger. "I search for clues as to who you love most, and I discover it's Alistair!" He grimaced, and rested his forehead flat against the desktop. "How can I make this choice? Do I steal your only child and give you the chance for more, or do I grant you a final goodbye before you never see him again?"

He sat there in silence for several minutes, thinking in circles.

"What do _you_ think, Fergus? Were they your wife and child, what would you say?" No answer came, though he had half expected one. Frustrated, he punched himself lightly in the side of the head. "You're over-thinking this, Derek Cousland. You're a Warden first. What would be best for the Wardens?"

_What is quickest,_ a soft voice hissed in his head. His heart lurched unpleasantly. Knowing what he had to do, he rose from the arl's chair, wiping his dagger on his leg before sheathing it. As for Alistair's amulet… He did not know if the arl would recover, and while he would surely rather present this to Alistair himself, Derek thought the templar deserved to have it even if Eamon were to die. He carefully wrapped it in a cloth and tucked it into his satchel.

Then, he traced his steps back to where his party waited for him. Jowan, Isolde, and Teagan stood in a circle, while Alistair, Morrigan, and Byron were waiting off to the side. Isolde looked up bleakly when she saw him approach.

"My son awaits your decision. Make it quickly," she commanded.

"I have decided," Derek preluded, eyes glue firmly to the floor.

"And?" Teagan and Alistair both asked.

"And… there will be no ritual. We fight the demon here."

oooooooooo

_a/n: OH MY! Are you surprised? Horrified? Or maybe you saw this coming._

_I may/may not have another chapter up somewhere in the middle of this week. We'll see!_


	13. Cold Resolution

At Derek's declaration, Isolde went wild.

"Please don't! It isn't his fault! He just tried to help his father; why must he pay with his life?" Teagan restrained her. His tired eyes bore witness to his own sorrow.

"Do not make this any harder than it is, Isolde. He has made his decision."

"Who says he gets to decide?" She shrieked, breaking free from the bann's hold and throwing herself at Derek, clawing angrily at his face and punching his chest with her small fists. He did not try to stop her, how only stood there and bore it. "I'm Connor's mother! I'm the arlessa!" Teagan managed to wrench her away from the Warden after a second. His blood stuck to her nails like dark paint, and beaded on his face in thin stripes. His eyes were still downcast.

"This is what must be done!" Teagan asserted, shaking Isolde lightly. She continued to struggle against his hold.

"_Noooo!_ No! I won't let you do this! It isn't right! _It isn't right!_"

"Go, and do this quickly," instructed the bann over her. "We must save Eamon and restore the castle. I… I will make Isolde understand." Derek finally looked up, and nodded before turning to his companions.

"Alistair… I will not ask you to come with-"

"I'm coming," Alistair replied tersely.

"Then let us make haste," Derek said, hurt by the hatefulness with which Alistair was regarding him.

He led them to the stairs that Connor had escaped through, and forged onward at the head of his party. Alistair passed him by when they reached the second floor, muttering something about knowing the way. Derek followed wordlessly as the templar led them through a door to the left.

"More of them," Alistair said loudly, swinging at the undead inside. Jowan assisted by freezing his sword again, and the lot of them slaughtered the monsters. Now that they had fought so many, what had seemed difficult only yesterday was now second nature to them: hold them still, sever tendons, chop their necks.

"It's just up this corridor," said Alistair when they finished, passing through another door and into a stone passage with a high vaulted ceiling- probably an older part of the castle, built sturdy.

After turning at the top of the inclined hall, they saw an open door. Inside, they could see Connor sitting on some cushions on the floor, playing with a carved wooden horse. Corpses were strewn across the floor in varying states of decay. Cautiously the Wardens' party ventured into the room. Connor seemed to ignore them completely. Ever wary, Derek glanced around at the cadavers. They did not move.

"Eamon," Alistair suddenly said, and began running for a door behind the boy. Through it, Derek could barely make out the form of a man lying prostrate in a canopied bed through the fuzziness in his vision.

"No!" The boy yelled, more horrified than angry as he jumped up from his cushions and reached out to stop the templar. "Don't go near him! She'll get angry! She'll get-" He didn't finish his thought, however, as he suddenly started writhing painfully in some sort of fit. The door to the arl's chamber slammed shut, sealed with magic. Alistair slammed into it hands first, then looked back at Connor with dismay. The boy was flickering in form, from the adolescent he was to something else: a voluptuous woman-creature, with elaborate horns sprouting from her head, and wearing only various piercings and chains suspended between them, and a strip of drapery over her pelvis. He changed back to Connor, for a split second, but then his head snapped back, and he was the demon entirely. Her body stabilized, and then floated easily off the floor as she caressed her own breast, and looked over them with eyes slitted like cats'. And then, she _screamed_. Derek flinched at the sudden piercing pain in his ears, dropping to a crouch and tightly clasping his head in his hands. He was vaguely aware of the others doing the same. Morrigan recovered first, and launched a fireball at her. The screaming ended abruptly, and both Wardens looked up in time to see the demon vanish. Then there was a familiar groan as the corpses in the room lurched to their feet, reanimated. There weren't many; the undead were outnumbered and quickly dispatched for the second time.

And suddenly, Derek found himself covered in frost, shivering uncontrollably as it crusted over his skin and armor, creeping out to cover all exposed areas. He hissed, and searched sluggishly for the source. He found it in the corner. The demon had reappeared.

Alistair roared, and charged at her with his shield, smashing into her shoulder and slamming her brutally into a wall. She screamed again, but this time they were expecting it, and instead of crippling them, it only slowed them down. Derek joined his fellow Warden , pinning her in the corner and slashing at her repeatedly with his sword and dagger. Morrigan and Jowan were both casting any spells they could between the two men at her. Byron was below them, crunching her bare feet in his jaws. She whimpered, and clawed at them with talonlike nails. They streaked across Alistair's armor with a shrill squeal, and grazed his neck, but he drew back in time to avoid the worst of it. Best of all, this left her open to an attack from Derek. Seizing the opportunity, he lifted his dagger high, and plunged it down through her throat, mimicking what he had done to the dwarf merchant Dwyn just yesterday, with the same success. Her unearthly eyes widened, and dimmed. Energy escaping her, she shoved past them with the last of her power, only to collapse in the center of the room.

Slowly, cautiously, the Wardens approached. The witch and the mage kept their distance, as did the mabari, who was currently drooling excessively at the bad taste of her blood, letting it drip back to the floor.

"Oh, _Maker_- Connor…" Alistair murmured as the demon faded away, leaving Connor's beaten body in her place. He was still breathing.

The door slammed open, and all in the room jumped, weapons raised, only to see the arlessa standing breathless in the doorway, horror dawning on her already haggard features.

"Stop! Stop! Don't hurt him!" She rushed to her son's side, cradling his head in her arms. Disgusted, she scowled up at Derek. "Please, have mercy on him! He's just a boy! He doesn't deserve this!"

"Do you see another solution?" Derek asked her fiercely, at the end of his chain. He had examined them all, and only one was viable- the one he was being persecuted for selecting. It wasn't as if he enjoyed the task that had fallen to him!

"There must be another option! The Circle must know some spell, or- we could bring him to the cathedral in Denerim! They could exorcise him! Maker help me, there must be some other way! _Don't kill my baby, I'm begging you!_" She grabbed his boot pathetically, and he shook her off, shaking his head slowly and taking a few uneasy steps back.

"Please don't make this harder than it already is," he begged of her quietly. He already hated himself for what he had to do. Suddenly, her tears vanished, and she bore her teeth at him like a feral dog.

"You're just like Teagan, standing there grim-faced and telling me my son has to die. It doesn't have to be like this! I _order_ you to stop!"

"This must end," Derek whispered to himself, and without warning her, he seized Isolde by the shoulder and hauled her bodily to the door, even as she struggled and screamed. Roughly, he shoved her out into the hallway, and slammed the door behind her, barring it from the inside. It was only a second before the door handle was rattling, and she was pounding on the wood planks in outrage. Mustering up the courage to complete his task, Derek rested his forehead against the vibrating door. This had to end. This was his task.

Pushing away from the wall, he slowly returned to the unconscious boy on the floor. The carved horse, he noticed, had been broken in the battle, crushed to pieces on the floor. Goose down from a torn cushion was strewn around the room, speckling the floor gray and white. And his companions were staring at him, watching and waiting. Morrigan stood nearby with her arms crossed and her gaze intent; Jowan was behind her, glancing anxiously between Derek and Connor. Alistair leaned against a wall, stroking Byron's head as he forced himself to watch, hating every second.

_Quickly, then,_ Derek strategized, swallowing a lump in his throat as he knelt down at Connor's side, drawing his hunting knife from his belt. His hand did not shake as he held the keenly honed blade to the boy's thin, pale throat, he marveled. He barely hesitated as he draw the metal back towards him, slicing the delicate skin and blood vessels underneath, puncturing the carotid arteries and making a slit in the windpipe. Blood gurgled freely out, spilling into the boy's trachea and onto the floor. Derek squeezed his eyes shut as Connor struggled even unconscious, drowning in his own blood while simultaneously bleeding out. He did not see Alistair turning away, looking queasy and revolted, nor Morrigan's steadiness as she held position, nor Jowan's anger with himself for letting it come to this.

"It is done," Derek said in a hushed voice when Connor's body was still, and no more blood poured out of his throat. Now that the deed was done, the Cousland's limbs felt like rubber, but he stood anyway, careful not to wobble. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he returned to the door he had barred, and opened it. Isolde was there on the other side still, and she immediately flung herself at him again, slapping him in the face, and repeating the motion when he did not react.

"_What have you done?_" she wailed, kicking him painfully in the shin with her fashionable pointed shoe.

"I did what I had to do," Derek hissed through the pain, eyes squeezed shut.

"He was just a boy! He didn't…" She trailed off, sobbing, and turned to cry against the doorframe. "I tried so hard to save him," she said, covering her wet eyes with her hands. "And what am I left with? Nothing." Her hands fell away, and she looked upon Derek with a singular animosity. "I wonder just how long Eamon will survive, now that the demon cannot sustain him. Will I lose my whole family, do you think?" Derek did not respond, only met her eyes with a flat, glazed over stare. "Enough. I wish to mourn my son, now. Give me that, at least." And she pushed past Derek, who did not move. He was vaguely aware of his companions walking past him, and Jowan's hand pushing him gently forward, leading him down the stairs and back to the hall. It had been cleared of the dead, and was now a gathering place for the castle survivors. Derek sank down onto a bench at one of the tables there, and absent-mindedly opened his pack, pulling out his whetstone, oil, and a rag to clean and sharpen his weapons.

He sat there for what could have been hours, slowly working the blade of his dagger back to perfect cutting edge, accompanied only by the repetitive rasp of stone on metal. After some time, he sharpened his family's sword with twice the reverence. This blade was meant to be forever sharp; to let it go dull would be dishonor to his family's memory. What would they think of him, now? If they would not have hated him before, this certainly would sway their opinions. Bryce has always told him to never strike a child, even the laziest of servants or squires, and Eleanor had loved children. And Fergus, whose own progeny would have been near Connor's age… They would hate him for this act of necessity, he knew. He hated _himself_ for it. And he knew he should; it was part of his punishment. He was useless except for killing; to end lives was his purpose, and when the Blight was finished, there would only be one life left for him to take. But that would not be for some time. He still had to journey to see the dwarves and mages and elves, and Arl Eamon was still ill…

All of a sudden realizing that he was alone, Derek looked up from the sword in his lap. Where _were_ his companions? Would they hate him too, or would they understand? He did not know which idea bothered him more.

He was not _entirely_ alone, though, in truth. There were Redcliffe guards about the room, carrying dismembered dead from room to room and exchanging news and commands. There was also Byron, lying at his master's feet. Realizing that Derek had snapped out of his trance, the dog looked up and whined, stubby tail wagging slightly.

"You're a good boy," Derek told him, patting his massive head. "…Byron, where are the others?" The dog whined again, but stood up, his nails clacking against the stone. Derek followed, registering how sore his body was for the first time since that morning. He followed the mabari slowly through a series of small rooms, and out a massive gate into the courtyard. More corpses were scattered on the steps leading up to the door, not yet cleared out by the guards and militiamen milling about. So the village had already been alerted that the demon crisis was over.

Outside the portcullis, Eamon's men were stacking the dead into mule-drawn carts. A few men were standing at the side of the bridge leading over the chasm, looking down at the lake. Derek joined them, curious, to see funeral boats being pushed off the docks and set ablaze when they had reached a safe distance.

"The arl's boy was sent off some time ago," one of the soldiers said gruffly, noticing the Warden. "There; the big one." He pointed to an elaborately carved ceremonial boat burning in the middle of the bay. An impossibly small figure could barely be seen lying amidst the flames, surrounded by scorched flowers and the glint of gold. Derek looked back to the dock, where more dead were being loaded into rowboats and dispatched. One of the men shoving the vessels off was quite familiar looking, with dark blond hair and grimy splintmail. His face could not be made out, but the broken stoop of his posture gave away his sorrow. A very real pain in Derek's chest made him turn away from the sight.

"Never mind the others, boy," Derek whispered to Byron, and returned to the castle, feet dragging. It was time for him to see Eamon.

oooooooooo

Teagan and Isolde were at Eamon's bedside when he arrived at his room. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before Teagan looked over his shoulder and beckoned Derek in.

"So it is over," the bann said, clearly exhausted. He sighed, and looked down on his sick elder brother. "Connor is dead and the demon gone with him. With its creatures vanquished, the castle is back under our control. I thought I'd never see my brother again." Isolde seethed, dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

"My son, your _nephew_, is dead. Do not forget that in your great relief, Teagan."

"How could I, my lady? I have lost two nephews in barely a week's time. Eamon has much to mourn, if he recuperates…" He brooded for half a second before addressing Derek again. "There is still the matter of Jowan. His poisoning Eamon began this whole mess, yet he lives. We will hold him for Eamon to decide his fate. If he doesn't recover, Jowan's fate is sealed. What do you think?"

"My lord, I did not release Jowan from his cell recklessly. He has been Conscripted."

"Are you mad? Why would you do such a thing?" Isolde exclaimed.

"I agree with Isolde: he is a maleficar. We cannot simply unleash him on the land and ignore his crimes!" Teagan declared, looming over Derek in an attempt to dominate him. It did not work.

"Do you think this is a gift to him? A free pass? To be a Warden… there is nothing pleasant in this duty, Bann Teagan; only penance." Derek looked up, green eyes stern as they met Teagan's. "This is no gift. He will repay his debts. Jowan is no longer your responsibility." Teagan clenched his jaw, dissatisfied, but did not argue. He knew that Conscription could overrule even the king.

"Fine. But our task is not done yet. Whatever the demon did to my brother, it seems to have spared his life… but he remains comatose. We cannot wake him."

"The Urn!" Isolde insisted. "The Urn of Sacred Ashes will save Eamon!" Derek frowned, disbelieving.

"Isn't there some other way to heal him? What about magic?" The bann shook his head.

"It has been tried, and we will continue trying… Perhaps the demon's absence will make a difference. However, the relic is another option."

"My husband funded the research of a scholar in Denerim- a Brother Genitivi," the Orlesian woman explained in more detail, surprisingly cooperative. "He has been studying the inscriptions on Andraste's Birth Rock. When Eamon fell ill, I sent the knights to speak to Genitivi. I hoped that he had finally discovered the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes itself. They were unable to locate Genitivi. In desperation, I sent out more knights in search of the brother or some clue of the Urn's location." Both arlessa and bann looked expectantly at Derek, who held up his hands to ward off their hopes.

"I have the darkspawn to contend with," he said. He had no time to waste chasing myths.

"Eamon is well-respected and powerful," Teagan countered. "He can pull Ferelden together. If you wish to fight the darkspawn, you will need him." Derek narrowed his eyes at the bann. So this is how it would be. He would only have Redcliffe's aid if Eamon was providing it. The Warden was starting to doubt that Eamon was the superior diplomat of the Guerrin brothers, and was leaning towards the belief that he just liked ruling more. Teagan was too smart for his own good.

"Very well," Derek said reluctantly at long last, and the hint of a grim smile ghosted across Teagan's lips. _Shrewd_ man! "I will see if I can find this relic."

"No one else can," cajoled Bann Teagan. "Even if I wished to do it myself, I cannot abandon Redcliffe to its own devices. Perhaps you could seek out the brother's home in Denerim and see if any clues remain on his whereabouts. It is the only place to begin the search, I think." Teagan brushed past Isolde and the Warden, towards the door. He paused as his hand touched the frame, and looked back. "I must go to the hall and begin rebuilding. I wish you luck, and may the Maker go with you."

"Oh, he does," Derek resentfully growled under his breath before taking leave himself.

oooooooooo

In spite of an offer from Ser Perth to room his party in the castle until they left, Derek returned to the village below. Though he had no desire to be on the road again, they had no choice but to get moving, and he needed to ask his companions their opinions on where they should go. Should they continue with the original plan, and sweep north to Orzammar, or should they backtrack and go to Denerim in search of this Brother Genitivi, where they would surely find themselves in a hotbed of activity for Loghain's soldiers? He didn't know, and he found he couldn't give it much thought at the moment. Derek desperately needed sleep, and his empty stomach was gnawing unhappily away at itself. Perhaps there would still be food available in the chantry, or elsewhere… And he had to find Murdock, as well, to return the house key the mayor had lent them.

Derek checked the chantry first. By now, the town looked deserted; most of Redcliffe's citizens were either at the docks or the castle, helping restore the town to its prior state. However, the chantry was still the center of operations, and as he had expected, Murdock was inside. The middle-aged man grunted a greeting at Derek as he approached, Byron at his side.

"Good to see you again."

"I've brought back the house key," Derek said, offering the key on the length of twine to the man. Murdock shook his head, and pushed the key back.

"Keep it. If you and your lot need a place to stay here in Redcliffe, you're welcome to that old house. Consider it a gift for saving our village."

"Thanks," Derek said simply, tucking the key away again. "Have you seen my traveling companions?"

"Ah. Well, the big one is out on the docks, and I don't know where your dark haired lady friend went off to, but as for the Alistair and the chantry girl..." Murdock nodded over Derek's shoulder. The Warden turned around, only to be slapped harshly in the face by a leather gloved hand, snapping his head to one side. When he blinked away the sting, he saw Leliana before him, scowling.

"You killed that little boy!" She barked, and what few people were in the chantry fell silent, staring at them.

"I did," admitted Derek despondently. Leliana's face softened, and her big blue eyes seemed watery. And then, she flung her arms around Derek unexpectedly, crushing him with a hug. He stood there confused and dumbstruck, not reciprocating. Over the redhead's shoulder, he saw Alistair watching him darkly, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Beside him stood Jowan, more uncomfortable and fidgety than ever. So Alistair wouldn't let the mage out of his sight.

At last, Leliana backed off, releasing him from her embrace. And then, she slapped him again, confusing him even more. "Don't _ever_ do that again! It was horrible of you!"

"I'm quite aware," Derek replied, glancing at Alistair. "Come on. We need to get Sten and Morrigan, and head out."

"Already?" blurted the templar. "What about Eamon?"

"That's why we need to leave," Derek explained, rubbing his offending eye. It seemed to bother him worse when he was tired. "We need to search for the Urn of Sacred Ashes if we want Redcliffe's aid." Leliana's eyes lit up, but Alistair's frown deepened.

"But-"

"I know. We'll talk about it after we find Morrigan and pick up Sten."

Things were made easier when they discovered that Morrigan and Sten were both in the same place, standing a distance apart from each other on the dock, watching the boats burn. As Derek and the others approached, one of the boats groaned and crumbled, tilting sideways and subsiding into the lake.

"You have recovered your wits, I see," Morrigan drawled coolly as the water choked out the hissing fire on the sinking boat. The qunari, noticing them, also came over.

"I have gathered provisions, kadan. We can leave at any time."

"Good, Sten. First, though- we need to talk about where we go next."

"After the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Leliana prompted.

"If there _is_ an Urn, we will only find it by going to Denerim," Derek told her. "There is a chantry brother there who has studied the Urn's lore. We are to find him. However, this not only means wasting another week and a half at least traveling, but also that we fall right into Loghain's hands."

"But if we don't, Eamon may die," Alistair said.

"That may be true," Derek conceded. "But still we must consider this. We're on a tight schedule; as pressing as the issue here is, things are also bad in Orzammar, the Circle Tower, and the Brecilien Forest. If we spend the next fortnight on a wild goose chase, we may lose our chance for support from any of our other allies, and even Eamon himself. We do not know how long he can live this way."

"We should seek the Urn," repeated the lay sister. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"'Tis a myth. You would be better off traveling to this mage prison of yours and seeking a skilled healer there."

"Alistair?" Derek asked, looking at his comrade. "What do you think?"

"I… We should go to Denerim."

"Sten?"

"I will follow you, kadan, wherever you decide to lead." Seeing Derek's inquisitiveness wasn't abating, however, the qunari sighed. "The dwarf city. They have skilled warriors, correct?" Derek grunted an affirmation, and then everybody looked over at Jowan, who was making himself look very small off to the side.

"And what do _you_ think, blood mage?" Alistair growled.

"I…" He hesitated, then continued. "The poison I used on the arl can't be cured with normal magic. The Ashes are the only option. We should look for them," he finished weakly.

"It is decided, then," Derek said, looking out at the funeral boats one last time. "We pursue the Urn."

oooooooooo

It seemed that as their journey progressed, the travelers in the Wardens' group grew more morose and introspective. Derek was all but asleep on his feet, his eyelids heavy as he marched and brooded. Now and again, his eyes would remain closed for several seconds, and he would experience flashes of nightmares that jolted him quickly awake again- the Archdemon, the betrayal at Highever, Connor's death… The others were just as reserved. Alistair did not attempt to speak to the only other Warden in Ferelden, choosing instead to bring up the rear of their party and monitor Jowan, who plodded along in front of him. Leliana seemed almost as tired as Derek- she didn't even hum as she walked, like she usually did.

Surprisingly, it was Morrigan and Sten who actually seemed more open and talkative than usual, unperturbed by the recent events. Leliana scoffed as they deadpanned about sleeping with each other, and the physical danger it would entail… but were they joking? She tried not to think about it. The woman didn't much care for either the witch or the qunari in the first place, and the thought of them going at it made her feel sick to her stomach.

They made camp that night in one of the same places they had camped on their journey into Redcliffe. By then, even Morrigan and Sten had fallen silent, weary from the weight of their packs and the distance they had covered. The group made short work of pitching the tents and starting the fire; by now, they were well-practiced enough that they didn't need to consult each other to divvy up the chores and get them done.

It was Derek's job, this time around, to collect the firewood. Remembering a dead tree he had noticed a few days earlier, he quickly gathered the kindling and piled it up near the small blaze that Leliana tended. Then, groaning as his aching joints protested, he squatted down by the fire, absorbing its warmth. It was then that Leliana looked up, frowned, and scurried away. She wanted no part of what was coming.

"Now that we're at camp, I want to talk about what happened. At Redcliffe." Derek tiredly glanced over his shoulder. There stood Alistair, freshly done pitching the tents and now looming over him with arms crossed. Derek's eyes fell, and roamed back to the fire.

"I don't want to discuss it right now." He didn't want to discuss it ever.

"We're at camp. Is there a better time to discuss it than right now? I don't think so," the templar said sharply. With a sigh, Derek forced himself back to his feet to face his brother-in-arms, bracing himself. "You killed Connor. You killed him. A little boy. How could you do that?"

"I didn't enjoy it, Alistair."

"You could have let the arlessa sacrifice herself. Lady Isolde is the one who started all of it, isn't she? Blood magic or no, if one them had to die it should have been her. This is the arl's son we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him?" Alistair was leaning in, spitting the words in the Cousland's face. Derek turned his face away slightly, but maintained eye contact. How could he explain his reasoning without driving the wedge further between them? And he still hated the choice he had been forced to make. Too exhausted to put up much of a fight, he shook his head and wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Maybe you're right. I don't know."

"I just don't know how you could do it, how you could make that decision. I owe the arl more than this."

"A decision had to be made. I made it." Derek found himself getting a little angry. If Alistair had wanted something done differently, than he should have done it himself! Why was he leading, anyway, when Alistair was the senior Warden? He could hardly lay all the blame on Derek after backing him into that corner to begin with.

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. And I'll just have to accept that, won't I?" Upset, Alistair gave Derek one last harsh look before turning away and retreating to his tent. The other Warden watched him go, and then sat back down at the fire, feeling even worse than he had before.

oooooooooo

_a/n: Wow, weeks really turned into months, huh._

_So, yeah. I've spent the past two months panicking and slaving over my coursework. I had to prepare for a massive portfolio review that determines if I can get my degree (it went well!) and I have about five papers due within three days of each other. And that is why I was unable to play Dragon Age and work on this fic. _

_But I couldn't just let it go! I'm back, baby! How often updates will be, though, I don't know. Anyway, thank you for sticking with me and _Borrowed Time_! I really hope you enjoyed this last chapter. Please, review!_

_P.S. I contemplated calling this chapter "Heir Loss," but I figured that was a little too punny for the subject matter. Oh well. It's still a good title…_


	14. Haunted

The journey to Denerim was seven days on the West Road. They were joined on the third day by the dwarf Bodahn Feddic and his son Sandal, who came up behind them in their mule-drawn cart with great cheer.

"Ho there, friends!" Bodahn greeted them cordially, waving with one thick-fingered hand. All six of the Warden party hesitated and looked back (Morrigan had vanished some time earlier, though a familiar hawk soared above them), even Byron. Until then, they had been traveling in grave silence. With Alistair and Derek both constantly brooding, there could be no frivolity during their trip. Every time a conversation picked up, it would die awkwardly when an attempt was made to include either of the Wardens. Other times, Alistair would snappishly make a comment that turned the discussion sour. After that, it would be dropped. Even Morrigan knew that their travels would be far more miserable if they were all angry with each other.

Not that there was no animosity among them. Leliana and Morrigan openly disliked each other, and in all their conversations, put down the other's life choices. Jowan, who barely knew any of them and wanted nothing to do with the Blight, kept to himself, occasionally glancing up and finding Alistair coldly staring at him. Alistair also turned that glare on Derek, several times each hour. It was no mystery why he was upset with the tired young man. Derek, who had barely slept at all since his Joining, was too heedless to notice. As for Sten… He spoke to no one, and rarely did anyone try to speak to him. Only Derek seemed to trust him. He trusted him enough, in fact, to let him lead the party when he realized his mind kept drifting as he walked, and he was having trouble concentrating. Alistair had sneered, but nobody argued as the qunari took the lead and Derek slowly drifted to the rear, trudging heavily and stumbling over protruding roots and stones.

So when Bodahn appeared in the dreary afternoon chill of the third day, he found them to be a quiet, grim, and weary bunch. Byron, glad to finally see a smiling face, bounded alongside the cart, grinning and panting.

"It's good to see you again," Derek said blandly, eyes dull and rimmed with purple crescents.

"And you as well, ser," the dwarf replied, taking a closer look at Derek and his mismatched cluster of companions. They were all a bit worse for the wear, that was certain, but their leader was like a dead man walking. Still, it would be safer with them than traveling alone. "Do you mind if I travel with your lot for a ways?"

"Oh, please do," Leliana blurted quickly. Living in the chantry, she had grown to love the quiet, but_ this_ was a _noisy_ silence, cluttered with stress and negative energy. She was sure having Bodahn Feddic and Sandal around could lighten the mood, if only slightly. She glanced hopefully back at Derek, who was blinking owlishly and rubbing his stubble. He looked a lot younger without his beard, Leliana mused. How old _was_ he, anyhow?

"Yes, that would be fine," Derek allowed inattentively, still scratching at his cheek and chin.

"That's grand!" Bodahn declared, maintaining his buoyant personality in spite of the unsmiling faces staring at him. "And if you'd be so kind as to let me and my boy share a camp with you tonight, I'd be glad to offer you a special discount on my wares," he continued, a twinkle in his eye.

"Enchantment!" Sandal added cheerfully.

"Yes, of course."

Immediately, Leliana joined Byron alongside the mule cart.

"Are you from Orzammar, ser? Do you have any good stories?..."

Leliana managed to keep the conversation going until the road became familiar. They were nearing Lothering, and signs were beginning to appear that suggested something awful had been this way. The raised stone road was stained with dark blood, long dry but still pungent. Flies congregated around the smears, clouding the air. Derek grimaced, trying not to let the smell of blood get to him. The herbal scent of his kaddis had long since faded, and could no longer mask the reek that sent him into unpleasant flashbacks.

"The darkspawn have been through here," Alistair remarked when the first tangible evidence was discovered- a Hurlock mace, crude and bestial in design and marred with rust and more flaking blood. It had apparently been dropped at the roadside, lost as the dark army passed that way.

They were on guard as they continued, the Wardens and Warden-companions encircling the merchant cart. Their hands rested on their weapons, twitching at the slightest noise. It was too quiet; the birds did not sing, and there were more and more traces of darkspawn on the road: more weapons, discarded armor, and the occasional corpse of a bled-out Genlock or Hurlock.

And then, the trees vanished, and the road opened up into the vast clearing where the town of Lothering once stood. In its place was a razed expanse of rubble and ashy fields. Smoke still rose from the smoldering remains of the windmill. And amidst the destruction, there was movement.

"Stay here, Bodahn," Derek commanded, drawing his weapons and descending the steps that led off the road. His companions followed; he heard the song of steel vacating scabbards. The roaming darkspawn heard it, too- several ghoulish faces turned their way, acid yellow eyes bulging as they abandoned whatever they were doing to charge at the humans, qunari, and war hound.

They met the darkspawn head-on: Sten and Alistair led, their swords powerfully arcing in graceful diagonals to slay a pair of hurlocks with warhammers. Derek and Leliana sped past them while they freed their weapons to perform their deadly dance. The Orlesian was, at this point, infinitely more graceful in her comparatively well-rested state, but Derek was still effective. Together, they demolished a group of genlocks armed with mismatched melee weapons, hamstringing them and stabbing through their throats and armpits when they fell forward. One fell onto his own weapon, sparing them the effort. Through it all, Byron was leaping about, snapping at heels and throats with abandon, and Jowan was casting a plethora of spells using the staff he had "borrowed" from the dwarf's wares.

Out of nowhere, a massive spider lumbered onto the field, and began gnashing at the revolting foes with its fangs and pedipalps, its globular golden eyes shining coldly. So Morrigan had decided to make an appearance. As Derek watched, she crushed two darkspawn grunts with her weight alone, and caught another in her powerful fangs.

And then, Derek stumbled. It had been a long time coming, considering his fatigue and compromised vision, but it couldn't have happened at a worse time. Almost on top of him was an unusually brawny hurlock, clad in jagged plate armor and swinging the biggest mace the Warden had ever seen in his life. But before he could dodge or block, he was falling face-first into the ashes of what had previously been a field of barley, and the mace was coming down towards him at an alarming rate. He stared blankly as it neared, and then suddenly, it stopped in midair. Confused, Derek's eyes sluggishly traced the weapon to the arms holding it to find them encased in a sheet of ice. And then, arms were hooking under his, dragging him to his feet and hauling him away from a new group of approaching genlocks. Coming to his senses, Derek looked over to see Jowan dragging him along, panicked as he kept his eyes fixed on the opposition. As the Warden watched, his recruit let off another volley of lightning, which jumped hungrily from one armored genlock to another, immobilizing them all long enough for Alistair, Leliana, and Sten to take care of them.

Seeing that the situation there was handled, Jowan let go of Derek and turned to help Morrigan handle a knot of hurlocks nearby. The witch had changed her form from a spider to a bear, and was clawing viciously at the enemies with her huge claws. Derek watched numbly as the two mages obliterated the darkspawn without injury. He had fallen. He would have died, if Jowan hadn't frozen the Hurlock when he did. He was clumsy. Clumsy and weak and _useless_.

_And a child-killer_, that loathed voice in the pit of his skull reminded him quietly. _First Oren, now Connor… You are failing in your quest, Warden. You will make no atonement for your sins by tripping like a fool in battle. You need to do better._

"I need to do better," Derek repeated hollowly as the last darkspawn fell and his companions approached, various expressions of confusion, concern, and irritation on their faces.

"I saw you fall," Leliana said when she was suitably close, wiping her twin daggers with a filthy cloth she kept tucked away in her armor. "Are you alright?"

"It won't happen again," Derek replied quietly, turning and wiping his blurred eye with the back of one hand in a way that blocked her view of his face, and vice versa. Unwilling to dwell on the subject, the Cousland instead called out to the blood mage that had saved his life.

"Jowan!" The mage had been avidly talking to (or, perhaps at) Morrigan. At the sound of his name, however, the apostate snapped to attention, looking instinctively guilty and a little afraid. "You make a good battle mage. You'll do well as a Warden." Jowan murmured a 'thanks' before turning quickly back to the witch, intent on interrogating her more about her shapeshifting, but she was already sidling away.

Then, Derek turned his tired eyes to Alistair and Sten. The qunari regarded him with an expression as enigmatic as ever, but he thought he detected a hint of disdain in that piercing crimson stare. Alistair only scowled, and pushed roughly past him. Connor's death had not been forgotten in the skirmish.

"Well," Derek started, looking at Sten and then glancing around at his scattering group, "we may as well camp here for the night." If Morrigan, Jowan, and Alistair heard him, they did not acknowledge him. He bit his lip, feeling very much alone. Sten, however, nodded, and went off to find the best place in the decimated village to pitch their tents and start a campfire.

"You're bleeding," Leliana's voice started suddenly, making him jump. He had forgotten she was there, and had been spacing out where he stood, eyes unfocused. Gently, she took his left arm in her hands, examining a clean slash on the back of it, above his bracer. Now that she had pointed it out, the wound _did_ hurt; he hadn't noticed it before because everything else ached, too. Pursing his lips, he gingerly tugged his arm free. "That needs to be cleaned and bandaged," Leliana objected, but he was already shaking his head and walking away.

"I can do it." And do it, he did, gritting his teeth as he poured water over the wound and wrapped it tightly under bandages one-handed. The others sitting at the fire did not offer to help, for which he was grateful. Now that he had fallen- shown irrefutable weakness- he didn't want to cement the idea by accepting aid, even if it would make the task easier. Only Byron objected to his masochism, whining as he sat next to Derek and nudged him with his massive head. After the bandage had been tied, he sighed, and wearily scratched the mabari's ears. It seemed like all eyes were on him; Sten was scrutinizing him coolly, Leliana watched him with pity, and Jowan kept glancing over as if wondering why the others were staring. Only Alistair would not stare, and the complete _absence_ of his gaze made it obvious that he was actively ignoring the other Warden. In silence, they picked at the last of the venison that Sten still carried.

"I'll go do business with Bodahn Feddic, then," stated Derek when he had finished off the chunk of meat, uncomfortable. Nearby, the dwarf had his own fire set up, and he and Sandal were busily reorganizing the contents of their cart. Their mule was grazing in a patch of unscorched meadow a short distance away. The elder dwarf looked up from his goods when he saw Derek approaching.

"Ah! I was wondering when you would make your way over," he said with a friendly smile. "Is there anything I can interest you in? A staff for your young mage, perhaps? I have a good selection for you, and with that discount I mentioned earlier, you'll get them at a steal…"

The next half-hour or so was spent haggling. To Bodahn he sold quite a deal, including the handful of spare weapons his party had picked up along their journey, some salves and potions he doubted they would ever use, trap parts, and odds and ends that had found their way into their packs- an iron ring, a bundle of vellum, a tarnished silver bowl. With the gold from the sale, Derek purchased a decent staff and new set of robes for Jowan, and more bandages for his medical pouch.

"Fantastic doing business with you," Bodahn told him graciously as he finally took his leave, slightly richer and with hands full of mage gear. Quickly, he dumped them off on Jowan, who had left the fire and was now wandering towards a tent.

"Here," Derek muttered, forcing the robes and staff into the startled apostate's hands. "The robes will enhance your primal magic- or, that's what the dwarf told me. I can't tell," he admitted. "At the very least, you won't look like you don't belong outside of the Circle anymore."

"Er- thank you," Jowan stuttered. "I-"

"It's nothing," Derek cut him off, quickly turning away from the flustered mage, who gazed gratefully after the Warden.

The rest of the evening was spent sitting at the fire, for Derek, if only to stay warm. When he came near, Alistair abruptly excused himself, but the lay sister gave him a _look _that made him reconsider and sink disgruntled back into a crouch_. _Leliana then tried to lighten the mood with a story, but somehow the grisly tale of Lady Aveline did little to raise spirits. If nothing else, it brought Jowan traipsing back to listen. They weren't told stories in the tower, so much as force-fed anecdotes of what happened to mages that misbehaved.

Eventually, Sten left the fire, followed quickly by Alistair, who had been itching to put space between himself and Derek for some time. Jowan stayed a while longer, listening enraptured to Leliana's tales, while Derek himself just stared into the fire, now and then nodding off only to awaken with a start as he was immediately pelted with images of Oren and the Archdemon.

He awoke around midnight as Jowan was leaving to sleep, mumbling about the templar making him share a tent with him, to make sure he didn't try anything. Leliana was watching him sleep, solemn, her arms wrapped around her knees. He watched her back through bloodshot, bleary eyes, silently begging her not to say anything. She didn't, and he was grateful.

"I'll take first watch," she said at long last, as he was drifting off again, in spite of himself. "Sleep."

And he tried, he really did, but the next several hours were spent tossing and turning fruitlessly in his bedroll by the fire. Just as he would finally pass into the Fade, he would be bombarded by his dead nephew and his new companion Connor, or alternately, the fury of the Archdemon. And then, as if in self-defense against a foe it barely knew, his body would force itself awake with a jolt, covered in a cold sweat and shaking uncontrollably.

He couldn't see past the light of the fire, however, to notice Leliana watching him still, deep in the shadows where she kept her watch. She frowned, concerned, as he writhed and whimpered and repeatedly woke up after only scant minutes asleep. She watched as he tried to control his breathing, tried to forget his nightmares and find rest, but the cycle only repeated itself. When he did sleep, it was light, and he cried out often. There were words mixed in; names scattered throughout the unintelligible murmurs. She heard Connor's name, but more often, the name "Oren" came up. And always, always, he was apologizing. It made her feel physically ill. She didn't have the heart to wake him, though; even if it was filled with nightmares, he needed every second of sleep he could get.

More than once, between bouts of fitful sleep, he sat up in his bedroll, carefully watching a point off to his side as if he had seen something there. He rocked while he did this, hugging himself and slowly swaying forward and back as his wide eyes focused anxiously on that nothingness.

Towards the end of her watch, he seemed to give up trying to sleep, instead poking wearily at the fire and throwing more wood on it. He would sigh, and rub his eye, and look back over his shoulder at the offending spot off to the side, and then return to stirring the embers. Eventually, he rose, put on the few pieces of armor he had removed, and wandered away from the fire.

"Leliana," he called quietly, and she sidled over to join him, pretending she hadn't just been watching him. He started when she came silently and suddenly from the night, but instantly relaxed, breath leaving him with a rattle. "I'll take your watch. Go sleep."

"Are you… sure?" She asked hesitantly. She had known he was tired- it couldn't be more obvious- but she didn't realize how little sleep he was actually getting.

"Go sleep," Derek repeated more firmly. She gave him an indecipherable look, invisible in the dark, but did not move.

"I'm not tired. I'll keep watch with you." She didn't trust him to keep watch alone. Not having seen how he tossed and turned, and definitely not after his strange episodes of staring off at invisible intruders.

Derek furrowed his brow at her declaration, but decided not to argue it. He didn't quite trust himself, either.

oooooooooo

Morning came what felt like eons later. After a few more hours at the post, Leliana had insisted they _both_ retire, and she went to wake Alistair. He relieved them with a sleepy, grouchy Jowan at his side; he had woken the mage with a rough jab of his toe. The lay sister gladly took their tent, flopping down and falling asleep almost instantly. Derek found himself jealous, sitting exhausted but restless at their fire. He sat there long enough to see Sten take over for the templar and the mage, and long enough to see Morrigan, Leliana, and Byron wake up and stretch outside the tents. They all seemed energized, ready to go, but he felt utterly drained. He couldn't have had more than forty minutes of sleep that night, less than he had gotten the night before… And now, Oren wasn't just plaguing his dreams. Now and again, out of the corner of his eye, he would see a figure roughly the size and shape of a young boy, with dark intestines hanging from his gut. Each time, Derek would panic, and turn to look, but then Oren would vanish and leave his uncle too terrified to look away, lest he appear again.

He wondered if the others could see the ghost, too, or if it was only him. Oren only appeared when nobody else seemed to be paying attention, lurking off to his left, a grim reminder of what Derek had done… or had failed to do. Each time he appeared, he seemed to be a tiny bit closer, a tiny bit clearer… The Cousland soon discovered that time was still taking its toll on the boy; his flesh decayed and fell glistening from bone, his intestines shredded from dragging on the ground. His eyes were foggy, but ever fixed on Derek. He half expected the boy to come strangle him with his own entrails if he dared ignore him. He did not dare. The ghost frightened him.

They tore down camp at dawn. They were on the road again less than an hour later, Bodahn Feddic and Sandal still following the group in their cart. They didn't talk, but Leliana did sing along the way, gracing them with her pleasant voice. Morrigan scoffed when she finished once song only to begin another, and wandered off to travel on her own. Jowan looked longingly after her, as if he wished he could come with the beautiful witch, but a firm glare from a still cranky Alistair kept him in line.

Sometime around noon, Byron broke the monotony by grabbing Jowan's staff in his massive jaws and romping triumphantly with it. Clearly, he was fed up with the silence and gloom, too- he wanted to play. Yelping in dismay, the mage chased after the mabari, hands outstretched. Grinning, Byron circled back around the cart, and then pushed past his master, Jowan on his tail. Derek was surprised to note that the mage was actually smiling as he tried to retrieve the wooden stave.

"Come back here, you mutt! Give that back!" he laughed.

Somehow, in the commotion, Alistair and Derek ended up walking side by side. It took a moment before they both realized it. Derek said nothing, only met Alistair's eyes with his own plaintive gaze. The bastard glowered, and sped up again, going to berate Jowan for getting too far ahead, though he was still behind Sten, who was stoically ignoring them all. Jowan had finally gotten his staff back, and was now patting Byron on the head. Both looked… happy. It would be a shame to ruin that. Derek sighed.

"Alistair, stop- just quit harassing Jowan, please?" It was the first time all day that Derek had voiced an order, and the senior Warden actually turned to face him.

"What's this? Are you done patting yourself on the back for your _accomplishments _at Redcliffe, now? Feel the need to start ordering people around again?" Leliana and Bodahn glanced anxiously at the pair, aware of the sizzling tension between them. Jowan wisely moved to the other side of the merchant's cart, putting it between him and the two swordsmen.

"_Please_, Alistair-" The frustration mounted quickly, and Derek rubbed his temples against the ache behind them.

"Well, asking _nicely_ certainly won't make me want to obey you any more than before!" Alistair continued, voice rising to a shout. "Look at what a _fine_ leader you've been! Dragging us to and fro, putting ourselves and others in needless danger, killing children-"

"_Then you lead!_" Derek snarled, violently opening his pack and tearing through it before coming up with the treaties. He threw them at Alistair's feet, shocking him. "You lead, if you think you can do better! Maker knows- oh, Maker _knows_ I wanted nothing to do with the Grey Wardens when this all started and I want nothing to do with them now!" With that, the Warden threw his bedroll to the ground, kicking it open and then searching through his pack until he emerged triumphantly with a vial of brown liquid.

"I don't- What are you doing?" A stunned Alistair asked quietly, tearing his horrified gaze away from the bundle of scrolls at his boots.

"I'm _sleeping_" Derek hissed manically. "I'm laying here for however long it takes, and I'm sleeping. Damn it all, I'll brain myself with a rock if it means I can lose consciousness for more than five minutes. Why, did you have other plans for me, fearless leader?" Derek drew his sword and approached the templar, who began to draw his own in retaliation, but then Derek was holding out his own weapon, hilt first, to him. "Do you want to kill me? I won't struggle," he confided, proffering the sword more urgently. Disgusted, Alistair shoved him roughly away, and Derek fell backwards to the ground.

"You've gone mad," The templar muttered, eyes wide as he backed away from the Cousland. "Totally mad." This seemed to sober Derek instantly. He sat up, pulled in his legs, and with a shaking arm, dragged his sword closer to his body.

"I'm just tired," he whispered, eyes downcast and lingering on the Cousland sword. A few small scratches from its impact with the gravely road marred the plane of its broad side. He stroked the marks with two fingers, and rubbed his injured eye with the other hand. "I'm so tired." And Oren was there again, waiting for his opening. Slowly, Derek turned his head to look, and his nephew vanished. The other members of his party followed his line of sight, trying to see what he was looking at, but nothing was there.

All of a sudden, a bolt of white light shot into Derek. He jolted slightly, and then slumped. Alistair snapped his head towards the source; Jowan was cowering behind Bodahn's cart, staff in hand.

"I only knocked him unconscious, it's not blood magic!" He said hurriedly, seeing the rage on Alistair's face. "I thought- _we_ thought," he amended, gesturing to Leliana, who was sternly watching the templar, "that he would be easier to handle this way." At Alistair's continued scowl, he added grumpily- "It's better than him braining himself with a rock, anyway."

"He's completely _lost_ it!"

"He hasn't slept in days, Alistair," Leliana said coldly, "which you might have noticed if you weren't throwing this temper tantrum!"

"Blight nightmares…?" His own nightmares had been becoming more frequent, but they didn't keep him chronically awake.

"Regular nightmares," she corrected him. "About Connor, and somebody named Oren. He's already tormented by what he had to do at Redcliffe. Do you need to make it worse for him?"

"Oh," said Alistair simply, feeling horribly foolish and humiliated. That Derek might hate himself for what he had had to do… it hadn't occurred to him. Now that he thought about it, he only felt more like an arse. "Oh."

"Er," Bodahn interrupted, "seeing as you've all been so accommodating to me and my boy, here, you're welcome to stow the young ser away in my cart until he awakens."

"Thank you," Leliana said stiffly, still glowering at Alistair, who was now bending sheepishly down to pick up the treaties. "Sten, would you kindly…?" Together with the silent qunari, she hoisted their unconscious leader up and into the back of the cart, carefully positioning him so he wasn't on top of anything pointy or sharp. Then, she gathered up his belongings and placed them in the cart next to him.

If at all possible, their journey was even more awkward without Derek walking moodily along behind them. Leliana was furious with Alistair for being so childish, and he was too humiliated to socialize with any of them- he even left Jowan alone.

They only spoke again several hours later, when an elf in tattered clothes ran up to them. Overturned carts were visible further down the road, but anything else was hidden behind a steep hill. Something was off, and it was obvious to everyone. Bodahn Feddic and his cart fell back, and Leliana took her bow from her back.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" she exclaimed, deciding Alistair looked like the leader and falling to his feet, grabbing his boots and looking up at him teary-eyed. "We need help! They attacked the wagon; please help us!"

He stared at her, flabbergasted, but suddenly a huge eagle plummeted from the sky and landed on her, tearing at her face and neck with its talons and hooked beak. A moment later, Morrigan stood in its place, slashing open the elf's throat with a wickedly curved knife.

"'Tis an ambush," She explained simply, seeing the horror on both the templar's and the lay sister's faces. "Enemies lie in wait ahead. I would recommend waking the other Warden. There are six of them at the very least."

"We can manage six," Alistair protested guiltily, not looking forward to speaking with Derek. Leliana scoffed.

"It is that kind of arrogance that will get us all killed!" She then spun on one heel and went back to shake Derek roughly awake. He blinked owlishly, and then clambered away from her, startled by her close proximity. Then he recognized her, realized that she wasn't Oriana. Glancing around, he noticed that Oren was nowhere in sight. And he felt… he felt _rested_. He had had nightmares, yes, but he hadn't woken up. But when, exactly, had he fallen asleep?

"Quickly," the redhead was telling him. "There are enemies ahead- soldiers, or bounty hunters. We need you."

"Yes, very well," he acquiesced, "But you _will_ explain to me why I was asleep in the back of a mule cart after we're done." Still a little wobbly from just waking, he carefully rose from the back of the cart, checking that his weapons were there before he drew them. His hands weren't shaking. He actually felt _good_.

Alistair said nothing as Derek joined the rest, furiously rubbing at his left eye again. It just didn't seem to get better, that blurriness.

"Let's meet them, then," he said to his group, and led the way towards the carts. He kept a sharp eye out as they slowly approached. "A trap, there," he said quietly, nodding his head towards a claw trap barely concealed in the grass. "And another behind it." The second was a tripwire rigged to explosives hidden in some shrubs. "These are no ordinary soldiers."

His suspicions were confirmed when they finally entered the clearing, and there was a sudden shout and the groan of shifting timber. Derek looked up to see a huge log falling towards him, and leapt forward, tumbling clear of the impact. A glance around showed that his companions had also made it through unscathed. The tree, however, blocked their retreat. This had been thoroughly planned.

Looking quickly forward again, he saw a golden-haired elven man step forward, his fair face tattooed on one side and a pair of exotic twin daggers in his hands. He smirked cruelly as he motioned at the traveling party. At his signal, several more warriors appeared from hiding places in wagons, behind rocks, and under bushes.

"The Wardens die here!"

And then, all hell broke loose. The elf's fighters dashed forward, met by the Wardens. Only one was quick to fall; one of Leliana's arrows was sticking haphazardly from her throat. She gurgled and fell. The others were not so easy to dispose of, however. They had clearly been well trained. They moved with more grace than Derek had ever been able to manage, easily dodging and reposting with vigor. Alistair suffered a gash under his jaw, a little too close to his throat for comfort. Suddenly much more serious about his opponent, he lashed out unexpectedly with his kite shield rather than his blade, snapping the elf's thin neck like a twig.

Sten was positively tearing through the elves. They were only half his height, and perhaps a third his weight. With his plate armor and superior strength, they were no match for him. At some point, he slung Asala over his shoulder and began lunging at them with his bare hands. The additional agility the weaponless attack offered him let him catch two assailants, slamming their heads together and killing them both.

At the rear, Leliana, Jowan, and Morrigan were busy picking off a row of archers and mages situated opportunely on the ridge above them. It was no wonder this particular valley had been chosen; the favor was with the ambushers. However, they had not counted on there being quite so many companions with the two Wardens, let alone ranged fighters. Between the three of them, they made short work of the foes.

The going was not so easy for Derek. Byron, at the start f the skirmish, had lunged forward and seized the leader by his leg, but the elf only growled right back and slashed at the mabari's flank with his dagger. Byron had yelped, but held on, earning another stab to his shoulder. Then, the dog had released, whimpering and falling back. Enraged, Derek had charged forward.

"Nobody hurts my mabari," he snarled as he locked blades with the elf, who was surprisingly strong and easily held him off. He grinned, and sidestepped, causing Derek to fall forward-

_DO NOT FALL_, the inner voice snarled, and he caught his balance, then spun, his daggers slashing towards the elf's calves. His assailant, however, was fleet-footed, and the blades only sliced through his fine leather boots.

"Agh!" The elf cried out, as if it had been his flesh that had been marred. "These are my favorite boots!" With the same indignation Derek had shown over Byron, he bared his teeth and went on the offense, stabbing and slashing with incredible speed. In a matter of seconds, he had sliced open Derek's skin in more than one place, drawing blood and crippling muscle.

Mabaris, however, do not give up. Considering his foreign accent, Derek wasn't sure if his foe had encountered enough members of the Ferelden breed to understand this. If not, it was made painfully clear when Byron returned, and lunged powerfully onto the elf's back, forcing him down onto the ground. Still, he wriggled, cursing in his native tongue and buffeting Byron's teeth away from his neck.

"Byron, no," Derek commanded, before crouching down by the elf and bashing him on the head with the pommel of his sword. He went immediately limp. Byron looked at Derek, confused. "Stay there. He might be faking it."

There were only two elves left, both looking increasingly alarmed. They had drawn blood from some of the Warden party, but none were seriously injured. With all of them focusing on just the two, it was a matter of seconds before they were overpowered, and the fight was over.

"I'm going to go disarm the traps," Derek said, shifting back into his leadership as if the last few days had never happened. "Jowan, would you watch the elf and let me know when he wakes up? Everybody else, loot what you want before we fetch the dwarves.

"Loot? Isn't that… immoral?" Jowan asked, standing over the elf and looking very confused as Alistair and Sten began to search the pockets of the dead and evaluate weapons.

"This coming from the blood mage," the templar said under his breath. Jowan got no further response.

Several minutes later, and all the traps had been disarmed and dismantled, and Derek had retrieved Bodahn Feddic. The dwarf had looked very worried, and relieved at the sight of them all. It wasn't so much that he was concerned for them, Derek suspected, that he was afraid that the assailants would turn on _him_ when they were finished with the Wardens.

He had just finished leading Bodahn and Sandal in their cart around the obstruction the ambushers had put in place when Jowan was crying out for him.

"He's awake, ser!"

"Excuse me," Derek muttered to Bodahn, before descending the steep slope of the ridge and joining the rest of his group. Indeed, the elf was stirring. Byron was no longer sitting on him, however; in his absence, somebody had taken it upon him- or herself to disarm the unconscious elf and bind his arms behind him. He strained at them for a moment as he came to, but quickly relaxed when he realized what was going on.

"Mmm… what? I… oh," he groaned. "I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven't killed me yet."

"That could be easily rectified." Derek did not like the elf. Perhaps it was just bias, however- being nearly killed and having your dog stabbed at did that to a person.

"Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven't killed me, however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes?"

"You seem awfully glib for a prisoner." He didn't like it one bit. He wanted the elf to be afraid for his life, not facetious and forward.

"Haha, it is my way, or so I am told. Let's see, then. I assume you kept me alive to ask me some questions, yes? If so, let me save you some time and get right to the point. My name is Zevran. Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly." Derek's eye twitched at the last word. This Zevran had nerve. Disgruntled, the Cousland raised his dagger and rested the point against the assassin's throat.

"Who hired you to kill us?" With the news that he was an Antivan Crow, it could only be a few people. That particular order of assassins was good, _very _good, but equally expensive. The only ones with a vendetta against the Wardens who could _possibly_ afford it were Rendon Howe, and…

"A rather taciturn fellow in the capital. Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that's it." As suspected.

"Does that mean you're loyal to Loghain?"

"I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual, I imagine. You threaten his power, yes? Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service."

"When were you supposed to see him next?"

"I wasn't. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results… if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then." Derek had a sudden realization. Not a drop of the elf's blood had been spilt, but here he was, drowning them in information.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Zevran laughed.

"Why not? I wasn't paid for silence. Not that I offered it for sale, precisely."

"Were you paid to talk my ear off, then?" The asked then, rhetorically. The Crow seemed to grate on him the same way Alistair annoyed Morrigan.

"Consider it something I'm throwing in for free. As it is, if you're done with the interrogation, I've a proposal for you. If you're of a mind."

"Make it quick."

"Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. _So_, let me serve you, instead."

"Can I expect the same amount of loyalty from you?" asked Derek with a humorless laugh. He didn't trust the elf as far as Jowan could throw him.

"I happen to be a very loyal person. Up until the point where someone expects me to die for failing. That's not a fault, really, is it? I mean, unless you're the sort who would do the same thing In which case I… don't come very well recommended, I suppose."

"And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?"

"To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you." Suddenly, their dynamic changed as Derek came to understand the elf. The change in the air was tangible. He thought he heard Alistair groan.

"Won't they come after you?"

"Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help. And if not… well, it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?"

"What do you want in return?"

"Well, let's see." Zevran smiled widely as he pressed his feet together in front of him, sole to sole with knees splayed. "Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line if you should decide that you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I am yours. Is that fair?" Derek considered for a moment, and then sheathed his dagger.

"Very well. I accept your offer."

"What? You're taking the assassin with us now?" asked Alistair, outraged.

"It's not in his best interest to betray us. He could prove useful."

"Fine... Still, if there was a sign we were desperate, I think it just knocked on the door and said hello."

"This is a _fine_ plan," said Morrigan with a derisive scowl. "But I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, were I you."

"That's excellent advice for anyone," Zevran retorted brightly, bouncing to his feet hands-free to have his bonds loosened by the lay sister.

"Welcome, Zevran," Leliana said cordially. "Having an Antivan Crow join us sounds like a fine plan."

"Oh?" he purred, leaning back into her, and gazing seductively up at her. "You are another companion-to-be, then? I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely."

"Or maybe not," she added darkly, pushing him away from her. Suddenly solemn, the freed elf turned to Derek, and dropped to one knee.

"I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation… this I swear."

oooooooooo

_a/n: Yeah, yeah, Alistair's kind of an assholish bully this chapter. But can you blame him? The closest thing he has to a father is dying because of a mage that his fellow Warden (who had just killed the son of his father figure) decided could be useful, and so let live. He's upset with them, and for good reason. I always kind of thought that the game sort of smoothed things over with Alistair way too soon- he may be a really nice guy, but he is WAY too quick to forgive in-game, imo. But he doesn't want to believe he's being an ass, so of course he rationalizes it. "Oh, he's a blood mage and should be carefully monitored" and "He's a cruddy leader, getting us all in danger" and whatnot. I hope you agree._

_Morrigan, by the way, is absent because I really think that is how it would be if she were forced to travel with that group. She would quickly become fed up with Leliana's Maker-worship, and Alistair's disdain, and Jowan's intrigue- not to mention the dwarves. I can't see her enjoying Bodahn Feddic's company._

_I am also aware that this whole chapter is kind of awkward. But, it was getting rather long, and I though that Zevran's oath would be a perfect place to cut it off._

_I'm hoping to get DA2 soon… But I may have to wait until July *cries* I just don't have the money._


End file.
